Classic Poem

The sun moves on its path of light
Across the heaven's floor,
The welkin beams above the night —
But they return no more.

The mountains sentinel the glen
And all its emerald store,
The meadow, copsewood, and the fen —
But they return no more.

The honeysuckle in the vale
Was ne'er so fair before,
The roses scent the evening gale —
But they return no more.

The watchdog, waiting hollow-eyed
Before the cabin door,
No more will be the peasant's pride,
For they return no more.

For ever stilled the evening latch,
The peat fire's glow is o'er,
The ivy fattens on the thatch,
For they return no more.

The ocean twines its throbbing arms
Around the silent shore,
Or raises loud its wild alarums —
But they return no more.

Upon the beach the lugger lies
Beside the useless oar,
No more 't will bear the fisher's prize,
Now they return no more.

Where once the weaver plied his trade
The shuttle's flight is o'er,
The ditch now holds the rotted spade,
And they return no more.

Not now is heard the evening chime,
The reapers' song is o'er,
They wander weary in a clime
From which they come no more.

Sad, sad, thy tale, land of my birth,
Bear witness wild Gweedore,
Thy children banished o'er the earth,
And they return no more.