Classic Poem

The last blue hill is fading in the sky,
The shores are melting in the distant wave;
'T is there thy lovely woods and meadows lie,
Land of my birth, my home, my father's grave

But fate commands me, and I now must go,
And leave my friends and parent all behind;
Beneath my feet the waves of ocean flow,
And o'er them bounds the ship before the wind.

Land of my boyish days! and must we part?
Must all thy fond endearments charm no more?
Must I forego that ecstasy of heart
I felt with friends so often on thy shore?

The ocean foams before me,—there I go.
Who knows I ever shall return again?
Who knows what gloomy scenes of deepest woe
Await me far—far distant o'er the main?

But I must go,—my land has bid me fly,
The sword of justice drives me o'er the wave.
Yes, I must go, in foreign lands to die,
And find, with strangers cold, a tearless grave.

How gush my tears,—how throbs my fevered brain,
To think my folly drove me from that shore!
O, I shall never sleep in peace again!
Pleasure shall dawn and mercy smile no more.

My prospects—O how fair! the morning sun
Ne'er shone more lovely on a world in bloom;
But ere I left the goal my race was done,
My scenes of pleasure changed to scenes of gloom.

Justice pursues me,—I must leave that shore,
And trust my hopeless fortune to the wave;
O how I long, when life shall all be o'er—
O how I long to rest me in the grave!