Jane's Poetry Book

From the Boston Centinel

I had roam'd in a clime

I had roam'd in a clime afar from my own,
And for years spent my life to my kindred unknown;
To seek an abode in a strange, foreign land,
An exile I went by a parents command.
For in blind disippation I wasted my time,
I own 'twas a fault, and perhaps 'twas a crime,
I was young, nor reflected that pleasure had wings
I knew not the woes which adversity brings;
But alas! how soon did the sad hour come,
Which forc'd me away from my country and home. I went - 'twas a Father that gave the stern word
No hand to protect me, or guide when I err'd.
'Twas a land where with friends I had pleasure to share.
Yet none but the stranger e'er welcom'd me there.

The days of my youth had long flown from my view,
And those which were left me, were fleeting and few;
The thought of my home and a parent in years
Who would bless my return and meet me in tears,
Made me sigh for the scenes where in childhood I rov'd
So fondly remembered, so valued and lov'd.

I came - and while cheer'd by the mariner's song
The billows seem'd kindly to bear me along;
My heart beat in triumph to reach the lov'd shore,
For I fancied new pleasures in meeting once more.

I flew - but alas! 'twas a desolate spot!
The place of my birth was deserted, forgot.
The hand which had led me in childhood secure,
The soul so endear'd, once so meek and so pure,
She who had caress'd me, e'er to manhood I grew,
And offer'd her prays when I bade her adieu,
Had gone to her grave; and the friends I'd once known,
So familiar in youth had follow'd or flown;
The mansion was old, and had gone to decay,
The garden lay fenceless and wasting away;
The delicate lily was scatter'd and dead,
The blush of the moss-rose had faded and fled.
The violet's rich hue was of beauty bereft,
The branch of the myrtle was broken and left,
The pink had been crush'd under merciless feet,
And the low mullien mingled its leaf with the sweet;
The dew-loaded leaf was bending and wept,
And mute in the woodbine the honey-bee slept,
The diminitive poppy in colours was drest,
The sunflower sprung up and flourish'd the best.
I look'd at the grave, but it caus'd me to grieve,
'Twas the place where so oft I had wander'd at eve;

Its once shaded walks still wound thro the wood,
Together the fruit and the forest tree stood.
The wild grapes in clusters promiscuously hung
And the autumn birds mingled and feasted and sung.
It seem'd as I gaz'd like the slumber of years,
And I turn'd from the waste, and left it in tears.
"When true hearts lie wither'd and fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit this bleak world alone?"


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