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to a neglected artist.
'T would avail you not: they would pass you by,
They would coldly hurry on
To one who had come from a distant clime—
A rare and a wondrous one.
They would coldly hurry on
To one who had come from a distant clime—
A rare and a wondrous one.
But you say, you love your native land;
That her hills, all bathed in light,
Are scenes that an artist holds most dear—
A fair and a lovely sight.
That her hills, all bathed in light,
Are scenes that an artist holds most dear—
A fair and a lovely sight.
'T is true; we can boast of noble trees,
Broad streams, and fairest flowers;
That a thousand varied beauties dwell
In this happy land of ours.
Broad streams, and fairest flowers;
That a thousand varied beauties dwell
In this happy land of ours.
But heed them not—away! away!
Though the loving and the true
Should linger around with a holy spell,
Oh, bid them a long adieu!
Though the loving and the true
Should linger around with a holy spell,
Oh, bid them a long adieu!
But you say, that your mother's heart would break;
That you are her only stay;
That her cheek would pale, and her eye grow dim,
While you'd "tempt fame's dangerous way."
That you are her only stay;
That her cheek would pale, and her eye grow dim,
While you'd "tempt fame's dangerous way."
