Songs of an Exile.--No. 7.(1840)BY E. H. D. (FOR MUSIC). Oh! the limpid streams of my own green land !
Oh! the limpid streams of my own green land !
Wo! wo, the Exile's cheek, and the Exile's parched hand
As she calls upon the rivers of her far off land. There is fever in the pulse--a deep and restless eye--
A cold and pallid brow--but the cheek is flushed so dry.
She reclines in citron groves, by the south's soft breathings fanned,
Yet sighs o'er all the parted, in her own green land. Away ! these clustering grapes and olives ripening round,
For the cloudless sky is brass, and she treads on iron ground ;
The bright Azelia blushes on its bed of burning sand,
But, oh ! the brook that gushes, in her own green land. Proud aloes top her home, with their many branching flowers,
And birds of loveliest plumage are flitting o'er her bowers,
But the viper-fang is piercing--where no human eye hath scanned,
And the Exile's heart must wither--from her own green land. Government House, Emu-plains,
New South Wales, 17 March, 1840. Notes From the Sydney newspaper The Australian 11 Apr 1840 p. 4. Top