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They trod the crowded streets of hoary towns,
Or tilled from year to year the wearied fields, And in the shadow of the golden crowns
They gasped for sunshine and the health it yields. They turned from homes all cheerless, child and man,
With kindly feelings only for the soil, And for the kindred faces, pinched and wan,
That prayed, and stayed, unwilling, at their toll. They lifted up their faces to the Lord,
And read his answer in the westering sun, That called them ever as a shining word,
And beckoned seaward as the rivers run.
— John Boyle O'Reilly. |
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Prom clime to clime pursue the scene, And mark in all thy spacious way,
Where'er the tyrant, Man, has been, There Peace, the cherub, can not Stay, In wilds and woodlands far away,
She builds her solitary bower, Where only anchorites have trod, Or friendless men, to worship God,
Have wandered for an hour.
— Thomas Campbell. |
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They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon, upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, " We will return no more! • And all at once they sang, " Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam!n
—Alfred Tennyson. |
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