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“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


“ 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


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


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


"Farewell !"—the echo died with that deep word,
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quickend 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!”


It is related in a French Life of Ali Pacha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into their mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy.

She stood upon the loftiest peak,

Amidst the clear blue sky,
A bitter smile was on her cheek,

And a dark flash in her eye.

“Dost thou see them, boy ?—through the dusky pines
Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines ?
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest ?
My babe, that I cradled on my breast!
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy ?
_That sight hath cost thee a father, boy ! ”

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