Hew Morrison Collection > Minor poems, and translations, in verse

THE WANDERER.
" But longer I could not abide
My destiny's resistless tide ;
And now I leave the city's noise,
To share with thee thy sylvan joys.
I come, 'tis true, in meek attire,
But bring ' my book, my scrip, my lyre.'
0, yield a home in yonder cot.
And say that Heaven has blessed my lot.'
The peasant ^^ewed the stranger's face,
Each mournful lineament to trace ;
isor, longer viewing, strove the less
His wakened feehngs to repress :
Quoth he — " Young man, your case, I trow ,
Is one of wondrous grief enow ;
But, haste, relieve my anxious doubt —
Does your fond mother know you're out ?"