Hath he, indeed, discarded from his mind
The object of his care and admonition?
He hath not—yet he casts no glance behind;
The wanderer fails to make his recognition.
What, doth his image live indeed with none?
Have all expelled him from their recollection?
Lo! a sweet lady comes—the cherished one
To whom he breathed his vows of young affection.
He views her—she has lost the airy grace
And mantling bloom that won his boyish duty;
And yet a winning charm pervades her face,
In the calm radiance of its mellowed beauty.
Can she forget? Though others pass him by,
Failing his former features to discover,
Will not her faithful heart instruct her eye
To recognize her dear, her long-lost lover?
Oh! in that grief-worn man, no trace remains
Of the gay, gallant youth from whom she parted;
A brief and careless glance alone she deigns
To the poor sufferer, chilled and broken-hearted;
Who feels as though condemned to lead henceforth
A strange, a sad, a separate existence,
Gazing awhile on those he loves on earth,
But to behold them fading in the distance.
Lo! a pale matron comes, with quiet pace,
And aspect of subdued and gentle sadness;—
Fondly she clasps him in a warm embrace,
And greets him with a burst of grateful gladness!
"Praise be to Heaven!" the weary wanderer cries,
"All human love is not a mocking vision:
Through every change, in every varied guise,
The son still claims his mother's recognition!"
—From the Danish, by Mrs. Abdy.