The Exile.

The swallow with summer Will wing o'er the seas, The wind that I sigh to Will visit thy trees. The ship that it hastens Thy ports will contain, But me!—I must never See England again! There's many that weep there, But one weeps alone, For the tears that are falling So far from her own; So far from thy own, love, We know not our pain; If death is between us, Or only the main. When the white cloud reclines On the verge of the sea, I fancy the white cliffs, And dream upon thee; But the cloud spreads its wings To the blue heav'n and flies. We never shall meet, love, Except in the skies!