HE stands within the silent square, <br />That square of state, of gloom; <br />A heavy weight is on the air, <br />Which hangs as o'er a tomb. <br /> <br />It is a tomb which wealth and rank <br />Have built themselves around— <br />The general sympathies have shrank <br />Like flowers on high dry ground. <br /> <br />None heed the wandering boy who sings, <br />An orphan though so young; <br />None think how far the singer brings <br />The songs which he has sung. <br /> <br />None cheer him with a kindly look, <br />None with a kindly word; <br />The singer's little pride must brook <br />To be unpraised, unheard. <br /> <br />At home their sweet bird he was styled, <br />And oft, when days were long, <br />His mother called her favourite child <br />To sing her favourite song. <br /> <br />He wanders now through weary streets, <br />Till cheek and eye are dim; <br />How little sympathy he meets, <br /> <br />Sudden his dark brown cheek grows bright <br />His dark eyes fill with glee, <br />Covered with blossoms snowy-white, <br />He sees an orange tree. <br /> <br />No more the toil-worn face is pale, <br />Nor faltering step is sad; <br />He sees his distant native vale, <br />He sees it, and is glad. <br /> <br />He sees the squirrel climb the pine, <br />The doves fly through the dell, <br />The purple clusters of the vine; <br />He hears the vesper-bell. <br /> <br />His heart is full of hope and home, <br />Toil, travel, are no more; <br />And he has happy hours to come <br />Beside his father's door. <br /> <br />Oh, charm of natural influence! <br />But for thy lovely ties, <br />Never might the world-wearied sense <br />Above the present rise. <br /> <br />Blessed be thy magic every where, <br />Oh Nature, gentle mother; <br />How kindlier is for us thy care, <br />Than ours is for each other.<br /><br />Letitia Elizabeth Landon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scenes-in-london-iii-the-savoyard-in-grosvenor-square/
