THE TRIBUNE.

From the London Literary Gazette.


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From the London Literary SAzette.


THE ExILE.S RETURN.
Hn s,ocd wi,hou, one lettering band
Upon his native shore,
The Joys and hopes that Freedom gives
Were all his own once more.
The weary pain and misery
That haunts the captive's lot;
The Past, the dreary, bitter Past,
Was in that hour forgot.
He reached his childhood's home, and pauset
To view Its aspect fair;
No dreaded change, no dull decay,
At FIRST he noted there;
The same old trees were casting still
Their shadows on the ground
The rose, the myrtle and the vine
Were fiourishing around.
And vet fearful stiffness reigned
Ger each remembered place;
He saw no hurrying form appear,
No sweet and joyous face;
No kind and welcome words of cheer,
No tones that once had been
The very music OF his life,


Were giaddening the scene.
He stood within his ch:ldhood's home,
Despair was on his brow;
Beneath the might OF agony


His spirit ssemed TO bow:
He stood ,here, pale and desolate,
And earth no longer sh0ne-
Alas, alas. what IS this earth


When those we loved are gone?