Classic Poem

A lonely grave, far from all kindred ties;
Lonely like life, and that was past afar
From friends and home. 'Tis well that youth has hopes
That gladden with the future present hours;
Or else how sorrowful would seem the time
Which parts the young bird from its parent nest,
To wing its passage through the dreary world.
Alas! hope is not prophecy, — we dream,
But rarely does the glad fulfillment come:
We leave our land, and we return no more;
Or come again, the weary and the worn.
But yonder grave, where the dark branches droop,
The only sign of mourning, early closed
O'er the young English stranger; — former love
And other days were warm about his heart,
When it grew cold forever . . . . . . .
And many are the tombs that scatter'd lie
Alone neglected, o'er the Indian plains —
'Tis the worst curse, on this our social world,
Fortune's perpetual presence — wealth, which now
Is like life's paramount necessity.
For this, the household band is broken up,
The hearth made desolate — and sundered hearts
Left to forget or break. For this the earth
Is covered with a thousand English graves,
By whose side none remain to weep or pray;
Alas! we do mistake, and vainly buy
Our golden idols at too great a price.
I'd rather share the lowest destiny,
That dares not look beyond the present day,
But treads on native ground, breathes native air, —
Than win the wealth of worlds beyond the wave;
And pine and perish 'neath a foreign sky.