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And on our path, where'er we roam,
Go, singing of its home !-
(Like Arethusa's rill, of old,

That through the earth, and through the sea, Led on its ters sweet and cold,

In unstained purity;
And rose as fresh as at its spring,
From all its long, dark journeying !)-

And oh! how fondly, on its brink,
When other streams are dried away,
The thirsty spirit kneels, to drink,

And listen to its lay ;-
Its sweet, sad lay,—that steals along,
At once a sorrow and a song ;
That-with a voice of sadness-cheers,
And makes us glad — through tears !
Oh! might we trace its upward course,
And wander backward, to its source,
On that bright upland, far away,
Where hopes — like fairies — used to play,
Hopes, that— like fairies, when they part,-
Left withered rings about the heart !

Young mother !—'t is a joy to creep,

When many joys are gone,-
Back to the grave of hope,--and weep,

Where memory keeps the stone!

Till, soothed by voices from the tomb,
And chastened by the church-yard gloom,
The spirit comes abroad — to see
That earth has, still, such forms as thee!
(Oh! fairer than those winged things

That came to counsel — and depart, When earth, from heaven, had visitings,

And angels talked with men apart,-
In that the heaven which gave you wings,

Hath hung them round the heart,-
Wings but to follow, not to rove,
For all their feathers are of love !)
To find, amid the paths of life,
The friend, the mother, and the wife ;
And feel the world, whose sun is set,
Is full of moonlight beauty, yet!

My soul is glad to gaze on thee ;-
Thou movest me, like melody!


Nay, hold, sweet lady, thy cruel hand;
Oh! sever not thus our kindred band;
And look not upon us with pitiless eye,
As on flowerets born but to bloom and die!

With none to respond our evening sigh,
In a foreign home we must droop and die.-
The bonds of kindred we once have known,
And how can we live in the world alone?

Oh lady, list to the voice of mirth,
By childhood wakened around thy hearth,
And think how lonely thy heart would pine
Should fortune the bonds of love untwine.

IV. Even now in the midst of that circle blest, There are lonely thoughts in thine aching breast; And how wouldst thou weep, if, bereft of all, Thou shouldst sit alone in thine empty hall ?

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