IN a foreign land, in a lonesome city, With few to pity, to know, or care, I sleep each night while my heart is burning, And wake each morning to new despair. Let no one venture to ask my story Who believes in glory or trusts to fame; Yes! I have within me such demons in keeping As are better sleeping without a name. For many a day of blood and horror, And night of terror, and work of dread, I have rescued nought but my honour only, And this aged, lonely, and whitening head. Not a single hope have I seen fulfilled For the blood we spilled when we cast the die; And the future I painted in brightness and pride Has the present belied, and shall still belie. In this far-off country, this city dreary, I languished weary, and sad, and sore, Till the flower of youth in glooms o'ershaded Grew seared, and faded for evermore. Oh my land! from thee driven -- our old flag furled -- I renounced the world when I went from thee; My heart lingers still on its native strand, And American land holds nought for me. Through a long life contriving, hoping, striving, Driven and driving, leading and led; I have rescued nought but my honour only And this aged, lonely, and whitening head. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HILLS WERE MADE FOR FREEDOM by WILLIAM GOLDSMITH BROWN FIRST BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 7 by THOMAS CAMPION THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE by PHILIP FRENEAU THE LIGHT THAT LIES by THOMAS MOORE THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF AESCHYLUS by AESCHYLUS THE SPHINX AT MOUNT AUBURN by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES CAUTION by FRANCES BROWN (20TH CENTURY) THE WANDERER: 6. PALINGENSIS: A PRAYER by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON A DIALOGUE, OCCASIONED BY MARCH OF HIGHLANDERS INTO LANCASHIRE, 1745 by JOHN BYROM |