She look'd on the vine at her father's door,
Like one that is leaving his native shore ;
She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own,
As it greenly waved by the threshold stone;
She turn'd-and her mother's gaze brought back
Each hue of her childhood's faded track.
Or! hush the song, and let her tears
Flow to the dream of her early years!
Holy and pure are the drops that fall
When the young bride goes from her father's hall;
She goes unto love yet untried and new,
She parts from love which hath still been true;
Mute be the song and the choral strain,
Till her heart's deep and well-spring is near again!
She wept on her mother's faithful breast,
Like a babe that sobs itself to rest;
She wept-yet laid her hand awhile
In his that waited her dawning smile,
Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less
For the gush of nature's tenderness!
She lifted her graceful head at last-
The choking swell of her heart was past;
And her lovely thoughts from their cells found
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.