VOL. III.

Fugitive Poetry.

FUGITIVE POETRY.

THE SWISS EMIGRANT.

FAREWELL, farewell, my native land,
A long farewell to joy and thee!
On thy last rock I lingering stand,
Thy last rude rock how dear to me!

Once more I view thy vallies fair,
But dimly view, with tearful eye;
Once more I breathe thy healthful air,
But breathe it in how deep a sigh!

Ye vales with downy verdure spread,
Ye groves that drink the sparkling stream,
As bursting from the mountain's head
Its foaming waves in silver gleam;

Ye lakes that catch the golden beam
That floods with fire yon peak of snow,

As evening vapours bluely steam

And stilly roll their volumes slow ;

Scenes, on this bursting heart impress'd
By ev'ry thrill of joy, of woe;
The bliss of childhood's vacant breast,
Of warmer youth's empassion'd glow;

The tears by filial duty shed

Upon the low, the peaceful tomb;
Where sleep, too blest, the reverend dead,
Unconscious of their country's doom;

Say! can Helvetia's patriot child,
A wretched exile, bear to roam,
Nor sink upon the lonely wild,

Nor die to leave his native home?

His native home? no home has he-
He scorns in servile yoke to bow,
He scorns the land no longer free,
Alas-he has no country now!

Ye snow-clad Alps whose mighty mound,
Great NATURE's adamantine wall,
In vain opposed your awful bound
To check the prone-descending Gaul;

What Hunter now with daring leaps

Shall chase the Ibex o'er your rocks, Who clothe with vines your craggy steeps, Who guard from wolves your rambling flocks?

While low the free-born sons of toil

Lie sunk amid the slaughter'd brave, To Freedom true, the stubborn soil Shall pine, and starve the puny slave.

Spoilers, who pour'd your ravening bands
To gorge on Latium's fertile plains,
And fill'd your gold-rapacious hands
From regal domes and sculptured fanes,

What seek ye here? Our niggard earth,
Nor gold, nor sculptur'd trophies owns;
Our wealth was peace, and guileless mirth,
Our trophies are our tyrants' bones!

Burst not my heart, as dimly swell
MORAT's proud glories on my view;
Heroic scenes a long farewell,

I fly from madness and from you!

Beyond the dread Atlantic deep,

One gleam of comfort shines for me; There shall these bones untroubled sleep, And press the earth of Liberty.

Wide, wide, that waste of waters rolls,
And sadly smiles that distant land,
Yet there I hail congenial Souls,

And Freemen give the Brother's hand.

COLUMBIA hear the Exile's prayer!
To him thy fostering love impart,
So shall he watch with Patriot care,
So guard thee with a filial heart.

Yet O! forgive, with anguish fraught,

If sometimes start th' unbidden tear, As tyrant Memory wakes the thought, "Still, still, I am a stranger here!"