148
poems.
Loudly it thunders—
The wild wind's voice!
Thou God of the tempest, oh hear!
He sleeps,—oh, thy power
Reigns o'er this dark hour,
And the faithless no more shall fear.
The wild wind's voice!
Thou God of the tempest, oh hear!
He sleeps,—oh, thy power
Reigns o'er this dark hour,
And the faithless no more shall fear.
SONG OF THE EXILE.
Oh, listen! the wild waves are rushing along,
The night-bird is shrieking its loud mournful song;
My heart it is lonely, my mind fondly turns
To my home far away, where love purely burns.
The night-bird is shrieking its loud mournful song;
My heart it is lonely, my mind fondly turns
To my home far away, where love purely burns.
Take me, oh take me to my native home,
In its shady forests so happy to roam;
Where leaves make a song to the night-breathing air,
And love's sweetest accents do whisper in prayer.
In its shady forests so happy to roam;
Where leaves make a song to the night-breathing air,
And love's sweetest accents do whisper in prayer.
The winds blowing lightly bear odours of flowers,
And light lingers long in the vine-circl'd bowers;
The low-murm'ring echo of streamlets is heard,
And softly is mingl'd with the notes of the bird.
And light lingers long in the vine-circl'd bowers;
The low-murm'ring echo of streamlets is heard,
And softly is mingl'd with the notes of the bird.
Oh, there is my own home, 'mid dark waving trees;
The poplars are rustling to-night in the breeze;
My heart hears the music of that treasur'd spot,
And where'er I wander can it be forgot?
The poplars are rustling to-night in the breeze;
My heart hears the music of that treasur'd spot,
And where'er I wander can it be forgot?
