Maria Jane Jewsbury

The Exile’s Heart

The breeze blew fresh 'twas free; he was not so.

                                 Mary Howitt.

BRIGHT roses round thy cottage twine,
And bending from the trees,
Gay dance the tendrils of the vine,
Like garlands in the breeze;
A cloudless sky is o'er thy head,
And at they feet a scene,
Where nature hath her treasures spread,
Where summer reigns a queen;

O foolish, fickle cottager,
Why is it thou art sad?
And why doth care thy bosom stir,
When all is bright and glad?
"Yes, roses make my lattice gay
My vines bear fruit of gold;
Those herds that on the mountain stray,
Are inmates of my fold;
And I can look on sky and stream
With glance as quick as thine;
To me, as thee, the poet's dream
Is oft a dream divine:
But deemest thou, vain questioner,
That these can bid depart
The longings and the love that stir,
Within an exile's heart?
"I know this foreign breeze to thee
New life and pleasure brings,
But England's storms would bear to me
More 'healing on their wings!'
This vale glows fair before my eyes,
But in my heart is shrined
The browner fields and paler skies,
Of one long left behind.
Go, traveller, and fondly roam
O'er classic field and flood,
Give me to dream of childhood's home,
Its wild flowers of the wood.
Be mine the scenes beheld no more,
Joys that have reached their goal,
The days, the songs, the thoughts of yore,
The memories of the soul!"