O'er the bleak waste the Shepherd sped,
His humble home to find;
Alas! his home—his heather shed
Was wrapt in flames, in ruin spread,
Before the raging wind.
His locks were white as Gormal's peak,
When Winter chills the year;
His hue was wan, his visage meek,
And the deep furrow in his cheek
Was traced by many a tear.
The Shepherd erst in hall and bower,
Had milder fortune seen;
Had passed with mirth the social hour,
Of Love had felt the almighty power,
With feelings warm and keen.
Now hungry, homeless, sick, and cold,
—His all, for ever gone—
His days he could not backward tread,
To forward views the look was dread,
For Hope itself had flown.
Despair! despair! the Shepherd cried,
When through the driving blast,
A well-known, long lost form he spied—
The Son was at the parent's side,
And clasped his Sire at last.
From far his wealth was now transferred,
A father's towers to rear;
The ardent hope so long deferred,
The filial prayer so oft preferred,
Kind Heaven had deigned to hear.
He pressed his father's faded cheek—
'Twas pale, and cold as clay;
The blood had left that visage meek,
His gentle soul had gone to seek
A Home, that lasts for Aye.
Sorrow, like slow consuming fire,
On human feeling preys;
But Joy's triumphant flames aspire,
Kindling the victim's funeral pyre,
Who dies amid the blaze.