I go from the land where my forefathers dwelt;
I go from the land of my home and my birth:
The dark doom of exile has rung in my ear,
And I go, a lone wand'rer, abroad through the earth.
No more shall I bend o'er the grave of my sire,
And dream that his spirit is hov'ring around!
I never shall mingle my ashes with his--
I never shall rest in that dear hallow'd ground!
And is there a feeling more desolate still?
More dreary and heart-breaking even than this?
Oh, yes! there is one--'tis the thought that my cheek
Has felt for the last time, a lov'd mother's kiss.
We select the following exquisite little gem from the "_New York Spirit
of the Times_." The "Times," by the way, is a weekly paper devoted to
the Literary, Fashionable and Sporting world, and is one of the most
lively, spirited and interesting papers of the kind in the whole
country. It is edited by William T. Porter.
* * * * *
The annexed little poem was written many years ago, and has travelled
all over the world. It has been translated in the French, Spanish,
Italian, and German languages, and several times set to music in
Europe. It has been the rounds of the American press a number of times
credited to the English journals. Its great popularity was the cause of
its being claimed by our worthy contemporary of the Mirror, who
published it originally without his signature in that superb repository
of American belles-lettres. Like most of the productions of that
gentleman, it contains point, piquancy, and quiet humor. We found it
again the other day snugly ensconced in the poet's corner of the
Evening Star,--let the Major alone for finding out a good thing,
wherewith to delight his readers.