The Emigrant Poem by Josias Homely

Supposed to be spoken in the wilds of Canada, on the anniversary of the Revel or Village Festival at Sheepwash.


While through these trackless wastes I'm strayhig
Lost in a train of bitter thought—
Scenes of my lost days round me playing,
To my lorn mind are freshly brought
The silvery Torridge softly flowing
Where the greenest pastures spread,
In fancy sets me glowing—glowing,
Though its banks no more I tread.

When as the dreamy mood comes o'er me.
As I roam the desert still,
Our village seems to rise before me,
Smiling on its breezy hill.
Though treading fields of red men's planting,
Though parted by the roaring sea—
My lonely heart is panting—panting.
To join its rustic revelry.

Our revel-day—how sweet, how shining !—
Sad is my soul—no tongue can tell
How my lone exiled heart is pining
To join that rural festival.
The laughing ring—the friendly meeting ;
The joennd dance—the joyous train,
Where parted friends are greeting —greeting,
I must never see again.

Still there the little rose tree's growing,
Whicli mother planted near our door—
But under strangers' hands tis blowing—
I shall see it bloom no more.
Rose of my home—the vital feeling
In my lone heart how sad its doom ;
Torn from its bed—tis quailing — quailing,
Dying, never to re-bloom.

Strangers must raise my sire's last pillow ;
Strangers must bear him to his grave ;
Homeless since I have cross'd the billow
And plough'd the broad Atlantic wave.
How sinks my soul to think that older
His sun fast dwindles to the west,
And his bones must moulder—moulder,
Laid by no kindred hand to rest.

Dark is the policy which severs
Hearts from hearts and lands they love ;
With ruthless hand our home's joy withers
More ruthless still, then bids us rove.
Fondly to niy lioine returning,
My soul's affections still will flee ;
And my heart is burning—burning,
To see that home and see it free.

Isle of green hills and fertile valleys,
May thy remaining sons be true ;
While, round the just, each yeoman rallies,
Thy faded prospects to renew.
Banished, forlorn, though I bewail thee,
Still across the restless wave.
From afar, I hail thee—hail thee.
Land of my fathers and the brave.