THE
BANISHED
MAN
,
ON
A
DISTANT
VIEW
OF
HIS
COUNTRY
,
WHICH
HE
IS
QUITTING
FOR
EVER
.
DEAR
distant
land
,
whose
mountains
blue
Still
bound
this
wild
and
watery
view
,
—
Dear
distant
land
,
where
fate
has
thrown
All
that
my
heart
delights
to
own
!
Blest
be
yon
gleam
of
partial
light
,
Which
gives
thee
to
my
parting
sight
!
Those
well-known
cliffs
,
whose
shadows
throw
Soft
coolness
o'er
the
beech
below
,
Where
I
so
oft
,
a
happy
child
,
Picking
or
shell
or
weed
,
beguiled
Light
reckless
hours
,
that
passed
away
,
Like
night-sparks
on
the
briny
spray
,
—
Dear
pleasant
shore
,
thy
sandy
bed
,
These
feet
unblessed
no
more
shall
tread
!
Still
thy
rich
vales
with
autumn's
store
,
And
cheerful
hamlets
mottled
o'er
;
Thy
up-land
peaks
whose
stately
forms
Are
mantled
oft
in
gathering
storms
;
Thy
blue
streams
widening
on
their
way
,
Thy
broad
lakes
gleaming
to
the
day
;
Thy
smoking
towns
,
whose
towers
of
war
And
dusky
spires
are
seen
afar
,
Thy
children's
boastful
pride
will
raise
,
And
fix
the
admiring
stranger's
gaze
,
—
But
now
,
for
ever
lost
to
me
,
These
eyes
unblest
no
more
shall
see
.
Thy
wild
pipe
,
touched
with
rustic
hands
,
Thy
reapers'
song
from
merry
bands
;
Thy
boatman's
call
and
dashing
oar
,
Thy
falling
torrent's
deaf'ning
roar
;
Thy
busy
city's
humming
sound
,
With
all
its
sweet
bells
chiming
round
,
Far
,
on
a
strange
and
cheerless
shore
,
These
ears
unblest
shall
hear
no
more
.
Happy
is
he
,
beyond
all
gain
,
Who
holds
in
thee
his
free
domain
,
And
roves
with
careless
feet
at
will
O'er
his
paternal
mead
and
hill
,
And
stores
the
fruit
his
harvests
yield
From
his
own
orchard
and
his
field
!
Happy
is
he
who
leads
at
dawn
His
harnessed
steers
across
thy
lawn
!
Yea
,
happy
he
,
bent
down
with
toil
,
Whose
glistening
brow
bedews
thy
soil
!
How
gently
heaves
the
evening
sea
,
As
all
things
homeward
tend
to
thee
!
Borne
lightly
on
the
gentle
gale
,
Now
homeward
points
each
little
sail
!
Far
,
screaming
from
their
airy
height
,
The
sea-fowl
homeward
take
their
flight
;
The
floating
plank
and
spreading
weed
,
Upon
the
setting
current
speed
;
The
light
cloud
passes
on
the
wind
,
While
I
alone
am
left
behind
.
Ah
,
woe
is
me
!
where
shall
I
stray
,
And
whither
bend
my
reckless
way
?
A
waste
of
world
before
me
lies
,
But
in
the
thought
my
spirit
dies
.
There
is
no
home
nor
joy
for
me
,
My
native
land
,
removed
from
thee
.
For
me
the
sun
of
heaven
doth
shine
Upon
no
hills
,
no
plains
but
thine
;
For
me
the
voice
of
kindness
sounds
Only
within
thy
cheerful
bounds
.
Rise
,
surgy
deep
,
ye
wild
winds
blow
And
whelm
my
bark
these
waves
below
!
Then
bear
me
to
my
native
land
:
A
breathless
corse
upon
her
strand
,
Some
hand
,
in
pity
of
the
dead
,
Will
lay
her
greensward
on
my
head
,
And
there
for
ever
let
me
rest
,
As
sleeps
the
froward
child
,
stilled
on
his
mother's
breast
.