The Exile.
I go from the land where my forefathers dwelt;
I go from the land of my home and my birth:
The dark doom of exile has rung in my ear,
And I go, a lone wand'rer, abroad through the earth.
No more shall I bend o'er the grave of my sire,
And dream that his spirit is hov'ring around!
I never shall mingle my ashes with his—
I never shall rest in that dear hallow'd ground!
And is there a feeling more desolate still?
More dreary and heart-breaking even than this?
Oh, yes! there is one—'tis the thought that my cheek
Has felt for the last time, a lov'd mother's kiss.
We select the following exquisite little gem from the "New York Spirit of the Times." The "Times," by the way, is a weekly paper devoted to the Literary, Fashionable and Sporting world, and is one of the most lively, spirited and interesting papers of the kind in the whole country. It is edited by William T. Porter.
The annexed little poem was written many years ago, and has travelled all over the world. It has been translated in the French, Spanish, Italian, and German languages, and several times set to music in Europe. It has been the rounds of the American press a number of times credited to the English journals. Its great popularity was the cause of its being claimed by our worthy contemporary of the Mirror, who published it originally without his signature in that superb repository of American belles-lettres. Like most of the productions of that gentleman, it contains point, piquancy, and quiet humor. We found it again the other day snugly ensconced in the poet's corner of the Evening Star,—let the Major alone for finding out a good thing, wherewith to delight his readers.
← Back to The Southern Literary Messenger, Volume I., 1834-35