The Rhode Island American, And General Advertiser

POETRY.
BY
J. V.

THE EXILE.

Ye hills of my country, soft winding along
The scene of my childhood, forever endeared
Yet not for a brighter or purer sky I resign:
When my wandering footsteps in misery turn
But sacred to mine is the rock of the Wiyat
That mingles its tide with the flood it hath

Where the notes of the trumpet at sunrise combine.
And the heart yet is laid low that 'scaped rapture
No scent or, dismembered the joys.

Your uplands I love tho' the fields lie wid y
For, nature in nought in the eye of despair
Not the lunare of hope phil hiving-uponia in

Again ye kiss blooming of favour and of tread
Ye shall bloom to the morn, though by beauty

A Fair your lone wood-paths the wind by. A
Be the haunt of the lover to hope's

And now waves weaned that the distant rioi y ,
The bower where the days of my youth pax

Where my soul found her primary and choaglit
No to benow p pxirr?
The Colours of Heaven on the dwelling,
Too faithful recorders of times that wre pai
The Eden of love, that was ever ta last I : t
Once, more my, soft accents rove wild gc
And the young and the happy be worshipper
still.

To me ye are lost —but your summits of green
Shall cheer thro' the distance of many a
scene,
In woe, and in wandering, and deserts. return
Like the soul of the dead to the perishing urn!
Ye hills of my country! farewell evermore
As I cleave the dark waves of your rock rug-
ged shore
And ask of the hov'ring gale if it come
From the o'er-towering woods on the moun-
Citains of home.