Pawtucket Gazette And Chronicle

POETRY
[From the California Courier.]
THE EXILE.
A Pilgrim from the Eastern shores,
Stood on Nevada's strand,
A tear was in his hither eye,
A pick-axe in his hand-
A tear was in his hither eye,
And in his left, to match.
There would have been another tear
But for a healing patch.
And other patches too he wore,
Which on his garments hung,
And two were on that ill-starr'd spot,
Where mothers smite their young.
His hat, that was a "Costar" once,
Was broken now, and dim-
And wild his bearded features gleamed
From out the tattered brim.
The Pilgrim stood, and looking down
As one who is in doubt,
He sighed to see how fast that pair
Of boots was wearing out,
And while he filled an ancient pipe,
His wretchedness to cheer.
He stopped with hurried hand to pick
a flea from out his ear.
Then spake that Pilgrim from the East-
"I am a wretched man;
For lust of gold has lured me to
The shovel and the pan.
I saw, in dreams, a pile of gold
Its dazzling radiance pour-
No more my visions are of gold :
Alas! my hopes are o'er.
Thrice have I left this cursed spot,
But mine it was to learn
That fatal truth that dust we are,
To dust we shall return.
So here, condemned by fates unkind,
I pass my wretched span,
And mourn, too late, that e'er I took
The shovel and the pan."
The Pilgrim paused, for now he heard
His distant comrade's shout;
From his pipe he drew a parting whiff
And knocked the ashes out;
And stopping, as he gathered up
His shovel and his pan,
The breeze his latest accent bore-
"I am a wretched man."