Here freedom dwells without a fear--
Coy to the world, she loves the wild;
Whoever brings a fetter here,
To chain the desert's fiery child.
What though the Frank may name with scorn,
Our barren clime, our realm of sand,
There were our thousand fathers born--
Oh, who would scorn his father's land?
It is not sands that form a waste,
Nor laughing fields a happy clime;
The spot, the most by Freedom graced,
Is where a man feels most sublime!
"Away, away, my barb and I."
As free as wave as fleet as wind,
We sweep the sands of Araby,
And leave a world of slaves behind!
* * * * *
NOSTALGIA--MALADIE DE PAYS--CALENTURE.
_(For the Mirror.)_
This disease, according to Dr. Darwin, is an unconquerable desire of
returning to one's native country, frequent in long voyages, in which
the patients become so insane, as to throw themselves into the sea,
mistaking it for green fields or meadows:--
"So, by a _calenture_ misled,
The mariner with rapture sees,
On the smooth ocean's azure bed,
Enamell'd fields and verdant trees.
With eager haste he longs to rove
In that fantastic scene, and thinks
It must be some enchanting grove,
And in he leaps, and down he sinks.
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