Full twenty years and over
Have changed my heart and brow,
And I am grown a lover
Of peace and concord now. "It was not thus I greeted
Your brother of the Green;
When fainting and defeated,
I freely took him in.
I pledged my word to save him
From vengeance rushing on,
I kept the pledge I gave him,
Though he had kill'd my son."
That agèd peasant heard him;
And knew him as he stood,
Remembrance kindly stirr'd him,
And tender gratitude.
With gushing tears of pleasure,
He pierced the listening train,
"I'm here to pay the measure
Of kindness back again!"
Upon his bosom falling,
That old man's tears came down ; Deep memory recalling
That cot and fatal town.
"The hand that would offend thee,
My being first shall end;
I'm living to defend thee,
My savior and my friend!"
He said, and slowly turning,
Address'd the wondering crowd,
With fervent spirit burning,
He told the tale aloud.
Now pressed the warm beholders,
Their agèd foe to greet;
They raised him on their shoulders
And chair'd him through the street.
As he had saved that stranger
From peril scowling dim, So in his day of danger
Did Heav'n remember him.
By joyous crowds attended,
The worthy pair were seen, And their flags that day were blended Of Orange and of Green.
THE MIE-NA-MALLAH* NOW IS PAST.
THE mie-na-mallah now is past,
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
And I must leave my home at last,
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
I look into my father's eyes,
I hear my mother's parting sighs -
Ah! fool to pine for other ties-
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
This evening they must sit alone,
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
They'll talk of me when I am gone,
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru ! Who now will cheer my weary sire, When toil and care his heart shall tire; My chair is empty by the fire;
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
How sunny looks my pleasant home,
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
Those flowers for me shall never bloom,
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
I seek new friends, and I am told,
That they are rich in lands and gold;
Ah! will they love me like the old?
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru!
Farewell, dear friends, we meet no more,
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru!
My husband's horse is at the door;
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
Ah, love! ah, love! be kind to me;
For by this breaking heart you see,
How dearly I have purchased thee!
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
I'VE come unto my home again and find myself alone,
The friends I left in quiet there are perished all and gone.
My father's house is tenantless, my early love lies low,
But one remains of all that made my youthful spirit glow.
My love lies in the blushing West,—drest in a robe of green,
And pleasant waters sing to her, and know her for their queen:
The wild winds fan her face that o'er the distant billows come
She is my last remaining love my own-my island home.
I know I've not the cunning got to tell the love I feel,
And few give timid truth the faith they yield to seeming zeal;
The friends who loved me thought me cold, and fell off one by one,
And left me in my solitude to live and love alone.
But each pleasant grove of thine, my love, and stream, my fervor know,
For there is no distrusting glance to meet and check its glow;
To every dell I freely tell my thoughts, where'er I roam,
How dear thou art to this lorn heart, my own, my island home.
And when I lift my voice and sing unto thy silent shades,
And echo wakens merrily in all thy drowsy glades,
There's not a rilla vale a hill -- a wild wood or still grove,
But gives again the burning strain, and yields me love for love.
Oh, I have seen the maiden of my bosom pine and die,
And I have seen my bosom-friend look on me doubtingly;
And long, O long, have all my young affections found a tomb,
Yet thou art all in all to me, my own, my island home.
And now I bring a weary thing--a withered heart to thee,
To lay me down upon thy breast and die there quietly.
I've wandered o'er — oh, many a shore, to die this death at last,
And my soul is glad—its wish is gained, and all my toils are past.
Oh, take me to thy bosom then, and let the spot of earth
Receive the wanderer to his rest, that gave the wanderer birth;
And the stream, beside whose gentle tide a child I loved to roam,
Now pour its wave along my grave, my narrow island home!
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