The Exile

Jane Wilde

Spring’s sweet odours from the meadow 
Fling their fragrance far and wide, 
And the tall trees cast the shadow 
Of the winter’s gloom aside; 
But for me no spring is bearing 
Gladness to my heart despairing; 
Comes no more with soothing power 
Kindly voice, or friendly hand, 
Song of home, or breath of flower, 
From my own dear native land. 

High in Heaven, circling nightly, 
Moon and stars shine overhead; 
Mighty rivers rush on brightly 
To the ocean’s distant bed; 
But for me, in sorrow pining, 
Star and stream in vain are shining, 

Foreign skies are drear above me, 
By a foreign shore I stand, 
Thinking of the friends that love me, 
In my own dear far‐off land.