AN EXILE'S LAY.

Southland Times, Issue 1007, 21 August 1868, Page 3

AN EXILE'S LAY.

i * By John G. Smith. Far o'er that dreary waste of dreamy waves A land of beauty lies, Whose rock shores the same blue ocean laves, And the same stars illume its azure skiest. That land—it io my own, my Fatherland, . Where live the free and brave, Whose deeds are sung by many a minstrel band, Where rest my fathers in their mossy grave. O could I cross once more that mighty deep, And be a child again, And nestle in my mother's arms, and sleep Unconscious of a world of sin and pain. O, could I gambol on those sunny hills, In the bright summer hours, And trace the wild meanderings of the rills, Which murmured music to the laughing flowers. The spirit-voices of the past yet float _ Around my weary brain, And fill the dreary desert of my lot With hailow'd visions of the loved again. The echoes of my father's parting prayer let linger in my ears, And cherub faces, beautiful and fair, Smile thro' the vista of departed years. Their dust sow mingles with its kindred clay,. Beneath their native sod — They lived, and loved, and hoped, and passed away To meet in bliss around the throne of God. And soon shall I, when life's vain dreams are o'er, Bejoin that radiant band, Where parting waitings shall be heard no more, And exiles find their horne —their Fatherland.