My longing glances turn towards thee still.
I fain would ask the bird upon the wing
Dost thou some memory from my country bring?
I fain would ask the flying clouds the same;
The whisp’ring zephyrs seem to breathe its name.
Can they console me? No, they only start
The brooding sadness in my lonely heart;
Like a poor orphan do I wander now,
O’er wither’d grass upon the mountain’s brow.
Belovèd cot, where I beheld the light,