R. S. Chilton.
New-York, July, 1843.
[THE EXILE'S SONG.]
I have sat in chambers rich and high,
When the haughtiest brow was smoothed in smiles,
When kindness warmed proud Beauty's eye,
And Art displayed its softest wiles;
But the forest wild was my delight,
At dawning gray and gathering night;
More joy had I in my leafy hall,
Than in fretted roof and storied wall.
I have knelt at the incense-shrine of Praise,
When a thousand voices chanted deep,
When the organ pealed, and the torches' blaze
Saw some in triumph, some to weep;
But higher rites have I partaken,
When Heaven with the tempest's wing was shaken,
When the forest blazed, and the lightning's dart
Quailed all but the wandering exile's heart.
In climes of softer air I've been,
And sat in bowers when the rose was blown,
When the leaf was yet in its freshest green,
And with one to love till then unknown;
But deeper raptures I have felt,
When by her rocky couch I knelt,
Who crossed for me the stormy main,
Content in one fond heart to reign.
A. M.