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The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.

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"I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!-thou 'rt from my native dell,

Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of

farewell!

And fare thee well-flow on, my stream!-flow on, thou bright and free!

I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me; But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving

years,

And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears;

The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known:

The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept

alone!

"I

see the once again, my home! thou 'rt there amidst

thy vines,

And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer

shines.

It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through

thy groves,

The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves!

-The hour the mother loves!-for me beloved it hath not

been;

Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed scene! Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come

-Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?

"Not as the dead!-no, not the dead!-We speak of them-we keep

Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep!

We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay

they sung,

We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band

among !

But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves

on earth

No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
I go the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell
When mine is a forgotten voice.-Woods, mountains,
home, farewell!

"And farewell, mother!-I have borne in lonely silence

long,

But now the current of my soul grows passionate and

strong!

And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,

And but the dark deep-rustling pines and rolling streams

reply.

Yes! I will speak!-within my breast whate'er hath seem'd to be,

There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee!

Brightly it would have gush'd, but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown

Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been

thine own!

Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to

pine,

Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than

mine!

Forgive me that thou couldst not love!—it may be, that a

tone

Yet from my burning heart may pierce, through thine, when I am gone!

And thou perchance mayst weep for him on whom thou ne'er hast smiled.

And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected

child!

Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kindred

dwell,

And quench its thirst with love's free tears!-'tis all a dream-farewell!"

"Farewell!"—the echo died with that deep word,
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast!
There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell

On the glad bosom of her child, and cried,
"Return, return, my son!"-the echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring "Return, my son!".

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