There o'er one, all sadly musing
Sweets distil from spicy trees;
Yet, though all around is blooming,
Nothing cheers him that he sees.
Lonely in sweet groves of myrtle,
Sad amongst the orange bloom;
Nothing cheers his drooping spirit,
Nothing dissipates his gloom.
Twice ten years he there has wandered,
Nor one human face has seen;
Moving like a silent shadow,
Rocks have his companions been.
Clad in skins of beasts; like serpents
Wild, is his unheeded hair;
Yet through lines of deep dejection,
His once manly face is fair.
As from gathered flowers, the odour
Never wholly dies away,—
Of the warrior, and the scholar,
Intimations round him play.
Nurtured in the camp, the college,
Never can his soul be void;
In the busy past his spirit,
Heart, and mind, must be employed.
Lists he yet the stirring battle,
Lists he victory's rending shout?
Tranquil is the isle, the ocean,
Pain within him, peace without.
Yes! he oft-times hears the trumpet,
Captains' shouting, horses' neigh!
Till before the horrid stillness,
All the tumult dies away.
And is this the courtly warrior,
Gallant, gay Sir Francis Leke?
He, the same!—who shunning discord,
Found a peace he did not seek?
Bravely sailed he from Old England,
Boldly with adventurous prow;
From the horrors of that voyage
He alone is living now.