CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 157 



MY NATIVE LAND. 



Where'er we wander, still we find 



A thousand cares on either hand ; 

 But none can feel true grief of mind, 



Unless far from his native land. 

 When to invoke the future, high 



The Captive lifts his chain-gall* d hand ; 

 That chain alas ! he heaves so high, 



Reminds him of his native land. 



If borne by fancy, while he sleeps, 

 To where his cottage used to stand, 



With joy he wakes, but waking weeps, 

 To find no more his native land. 



If, kindly, to relieve his pain, 



Some friendly, generous hearts expand, 

 He would be happy, but in vain, 



It minds him of his native land. 



Should e'er it be my lot to stray, 

 To be by southern breezes fann'd, 



I'll ne'er forget, though far away, 

 How much I love thee, native land ! 



Or, if to climes enrobed in snow, 



And locked in winter's icy band, 

 By adamantine fate obliged to go, 



I'll think of thee, my native land. 



MY BIRTH-DAY. 



Time shakes his glass, and swiftly run 

 Life's sands, still ebbing grain by grain,- 



For weary, wan, autumnal sun, 



Brings round my birth -day once again ; 



And lights me, like the fading bloom 



Of Pale October, to the tomb. 



My birth- day ! Each revolving year 

 It seems to me a darker day ; 



Whose dying flowers, and leaflets sere, 

 With solemn warning, seem to say, 



