THOUGHTS OF HOME.
Now far away from Mona's shore,
Thy hills behold I can no more,
Thy sylvan glens and shady bowers,
And cliffs adorned with purple flowers,
Nor little birds that sweetly sing,
To welcome in the rosy spring:
Though all these charms are lost to me,
Yet still my fond heart clings to thee.
The prickly gorse, with yellow bloom,
That grows entwined with the wild broom,
The rose that shimmers from the fen,
And meek primroses in the glen,
The wintry snows and rosy spring,
That taught my muses how to sing,
Are graven on my memory,
And oh, my fond heart clings to thee!
The bee has sipped the bright-eyed dew,
And hovered o'er the violet blue;
The lark that sung the morn to cheer,
Whose melody I loved to hear
When the bright source of day returned,
And Mona's smiling glens adorned,
Are invisible to me,
But still my fond heart clings to thee!
My fancy fingers still around
Where nectar's fairest scenes abound;
In dreams the meadows green appear,
And tinkling streamlets bright and clear,
With verdant spots where daisies grow,
and heather bells in purple glow;
Though I no more those charms can see
In thought I'll still revisit thee!
The setting sun that gilds the west,
And Mona's hills with beauty drest,
While evening zephyrs gently move
The closing roses in the grove,
And moonlight in the east appears,
To stud the grass with fairy tears,
Are now beyond the deep blue sea,
But still my fond heart clings to thee!
