He comes from the sunny East,
From mountain-clad and fertile plain;
His brow with thought is furrowed least,
Yet deep within his soul is pain.
He learns in halls of Grecian art,
The lore of lands so far away;
Yet in his breast there beats a heart,
That mourns for home and native clay.
And as he walks the foreign street,
The sun of memory lights his face;
He sees the hills and rivers meet,
And longs to see his native place.