Yet not forsaken Ruth! I see thee stand
Lone, midst the gladness of the harvest-band—
Lone, as a wood-bird on the ocean’s foam
Fall’n in its weariness. Thy fatherland
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home—
That finest, purest, which can recognise
Home in affection’s glance—for ever true
Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eyes
Gleam tremulous through tears,’tis not to rue
Those words, immortal in their deep love’s tone,