Where lie inurned the ashes of my sires,
Mournfully from your sacred scenes I roam,
While, in my heart, the light of joy expires!
Far from your broad lakes, and your sunlit bays,
Your forests vast and boundless flowery plains,
Stern fate commands, and scarce its power delays
Till this rude harp has closed its dying strains.
The wanderer leaves: but if perchance he sees,
When far away, a fairer face or form,
Or if at eve, far floating o’er the breeze,