(LDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.
Adieu, adieu! My native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell, awhile, to him and thee
My native land !—Good night.
A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth,
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate,
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.
And, now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine,
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves,
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome ye deserts and ye caves!
My native land-Good night.
In that sweet hour when morning bright
Pours o'er the world a flood of light,
And wood and mountain, tower and stream,
Are glittering in the golden beam.
Or when the gentle moonbeams rest
Upon the broad lake's peaceful breast,
When the light breeze is full of balm,
And all around is still and calm,
I love in solitude to roam,
And muse on thee my distant home.
My mother's gentle voice I hear,
Her tender smile I see;
That voice, that smile, that seem more dear,
Than ever now to me.
With her through shady walks Irove,
Or tend her favourite flowers,
Or by the stream we used to love
Spend the bright summer hours.
Why did I cross the blue sea's foam,
Why leave my dear, my pleasant home!
If care or sorrow rend my heart,
Or agitate my breast,
Who now will seek, with tender art,
To sooth my griefs to rest?
Who when on pain's hard couch I lie
Will share my chamber's gloom.
And who will watch me when I die,
And lay me in my tomb?
It is enough-no more I'll roam,
I haste to thee, my long last home!
CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.
Adieu, adieu! My native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell, awhile, to him and thee
My native land !—Good night.
A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth,
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate,
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.
And, now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine,
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves,
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome ye deserts and ye caves !
My native land-Good night.
The Polish mother sat and wept
Afar in wild Siberia's land,
Her lovely little infant slept,
Cradled upon her knee and hand :
She gazed upon his placid face,
His father's image, mild but brave,Anxious she gazed if she could trace One feature of a slave.
Ah, no! she cried, thou art, my son
Thy father's son, who died so brave,
I'd rather that thy race was run,
Than nurture thee to be a slave!
Yes, I would rather dig thy grave,
And lay thee there without a tear,
Than suckle thee, that tyrant knave
Should dare enslave thee here.
But I will tell thee of thy sire-
I'll tell thee of thy country's shame,
And I will mark thy young breast's fire,
And fan and feed the flame :
I'll tell thee of our Russian foe,
Who came into our land once free
And sent us to this land of snow,
To die in slavery!
I'll tell thee how that Europe gazed
And wonder'd Poles could face each horde,
But how they only look'd and praised
Nor sought to aid the patriot's sword!
I'll tell thee too, when Warsaw fell,
What cruelties our nation bore,
And when thou growest, I will tell
Thee-be a slave no more.
Away--away-my bosom glows,
I'll make a hero of my son;
He'll lead his countrymen from snows,
To death or victory-on-on!
With this she raised him and embraced
The young and yet unconscious child :
He oped his lovely eyes and gazed
Upon her face and smiled.
It must be sweet, in childhood to give back
The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart
Has
grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown-to garner up its bitter fruits.
I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,
And when the eighth came round, and call'd him out
To gambol in the sun, he turn'd away,
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die!
'Twas night-he summon'd his accustom'd friends,
And in this wise, bestow'd his last bequest :-
"Mother! I'm dying now—
There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom press'd,
And on my brow
I feel the cold sweat stand,'
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?
Mother! your hand-
Here-lay it on my wrist,
And place the other soft beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother!—say, when I am dead,
Shall I be miss'd?
Never beside your knee
Shall I kneel down at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught to me!
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