Chapter I

Upon its little turfy hill, the desert’s charm and pride,
The tall oak in his majesty extends his branches wide:
His shadow covers half the waste, and there he stands alone,
Like a poor soldier on the watch, a sad abandoned one!
And who, when wakes the glowing sun, thy friendly shade shall seek?
Or shield thee when the thunder rolls, and when the lightnings break?
No graceful pine protects thee now, no willow waves its head,
No sheltering ivy’s dark green leaves are midst thy branches spread!
Alas! ’tis sad to stand alone, thus banished from the grove;
But bitterer far for youth to mourn divided from his love!
Though gold and silver, wealth and fame, and honours he possess,
With none t’ enjoy them, none to share, they are but nothingness.
Cold is the converse of the world--a greeting, and no more!
And beauty’s converse colder still--a word, and all is o’er:
Some shun my presence, and from some scorn bids my spirit fly:
Though all are lovers, all are friends, till tempests veil the sky.
But where’s the breast where I may sleep, when those dark moments come?
For he who loved me cannot hear, he slumbers in the tomb!
Alas! I long have lost the joys of friend and family,
And the fair maid that I adore looks carelessly on me:
No aged parents on our heads their benedictions pour:
No children to our bosoms creep, or play upon our floor;
O take away your wealth, your fame, your honours, treasures vile,
And give me in their stead, a home--a love--and love’s sweet smile.