THE POEM

Dear native regions, I foretell,

From what I feel at this farewell,

That, wheresoe'er my steps maytend,

And whensoe'er my course shall end,

If in that hour a single tie

Survive of local sympathy,

My soul will cast the backward view,

The longing look alone on you.

Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest

Far in the regions of the west,

Though to the vale no parting beam

Be given, not one memorial gleam,

A lingering light he fondly throws

On the dear hillswhere first he rose.