The Exile’s Desire

Would I could see you, native land, Where lilacs and the almond stand Behind fields flowering to the strand-- But no! Can I--oh, father, mother, crave Another final blessing save To rest my head upon your grave?-- But no! In the one pit where ye repose, Would I could tell of France's woes, My brethren, who fell facing foes-- But no! Would I had--oh, my dove of light, After whose flight came ceaseless night, One plume to clasp so purely white.-- But no! Far from ye all--oh, dead, bewailed! The fog-bell deafens me empaled Upon this rock--I feel enjailed-- Though free. Like one who watches at the gate Lest some shall 'scape the doomed strait. I watch! the tyrant, howe'er late, Must fall!