Ruth

THE PLUME-LIKE swaying of the auburn corn

By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann’d,

Still brings me back thine image—Oh! forlorn

Yet not forsaken Ruth—I see thee stand

Lone ’midst the gladness of the harvest band—

Lone as the wood-bird on the ocean’s foam,

Fall’n in its weariness. Thy fatherland

Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home,

That finest, purest, which can recognize

Home in affection’s glance, for ever true

Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eye

Gleam tremulous through tears, ’tis not to rue

Those words, immortal in their deep Love’s tone,

“Thy people and thy God shall be mine own.”