The Exile

Mr Elliott


“Sadly throbs the Exile’s bosom
Buds of hope for him ne’er blossom.
Far from wild Algarve’s mountains,
Far from shady Cintra’s fountains,
From the Land my heart loves dearest;
Thought of home is pain severest.
Hope’s sweet buds, no more ye blossom —
Dead’s your root in this sad bosom!


“In Brasilian Wilds may flourish
Gayer flow’rs than gardens nourish;
Tho’ the fruits be richer, fairer,
Tho’ the birds of plumage rarer;
Sight of home were greater blessing
Than all pleasures here possessing.
Buds of hope, no more ye blossom
O’er this lonely exiled bosom!


“What avails the diamond’s splendor?
Brighter far hearts true and tender.
Dim the lustre of the jewel
Sought with tears for tyrant cruel.
Sight of home were greater pleasure
Than to win all Brasil’s treasure:
But that hope no more can blossom
In my sad and exiled bosom!”