We met as strangers, Lady, tho' the scenes On which thine eyes first opened, were the same To which the sports of childhood, and the hopes Of Manhood's flattering dawn, had bound my heart With cords of filial love indissoluble. We part as strangers, tho' the self-same roof So long has sheltered both. I hear thy voice-- I hear thy fairy step--and trace the print Of the soft kiss, with which thy lip has prest My infant's cheek; and see her little hands Rich with the gifts thy kindness has bestowed. And this is all: but there is more than this That with a link of sympathy connects My heart with thee, as if some common lot, Some common spell of destiny had bound Our fates in one. And we have much in common. The hope that guides thy steps to distant lands, In quest of pleasures, such as boundless wealth, And friends, and youth, and peerless beauty promise-- How much unlike the stern necessity, Which drove me forth to roam thro' desarts wild, And on the confines of society, Where the fierce savage whets the vengeful knife 'Gainst cultivated brutes more fierce than he, Through hardship, toil and strife, to win my bread! {88} But O! to leave the scenes of happy youth-- The Father's sheltering roof, the Mother's care, The blithe play-fellows of our childish sports, The gay companions of our gladsome hours, The cherished friend, whose sympathy consoled The petty griefs, that, like a fleecy cloud, But dimmed the sunshine of our spring of life, And, having shed its freshness on the heart, Melted away, leaving the scene more fair;-- To lose all these!--what is it but the type Of that last fatal wrench, that tears the heart At once from all we love; and in one doom, One common bond of sympathy, unites The unnumbered victims, who in every rank, Through every walk, throng to the gates of Death? May we not deem that the fond Mother's heart, Though couched in bliss celestial, yet will yearn To her deserted Child? And will not thine, Where'er thy steps may roam, true to the pole Of all thy young affections, point thy thoughts To the fair scenes, clothed by thy fairy hand With every charm of hue, and scent, and shade, Thyself the brightest ornament? O yes! From the rich isle, where science, art and wealth Have crowded every joy, the ravished sense, And heart, and mind can covet; from the plains Of France the beauteous; from the vine-crowned hills That in the glassy bosom of the Rhine Their blushing fruitages reflected see; From classic Italy, the "marble waste" Of desecrated fane, and ruined tower, And silent palaces, where once the doom Of empires was decreed, the heart will turn To _Home_. The trackless wild, where foot of man Has never broke the silence with its tread, Is not more lonely than the thronging scene, The "peopled solitude," where jostling crowds Elbow their way, regardless that we look