Would I of thy fond love be told:
My heart is full, mine eyes are wet;
Dear mother! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet?
Oh! when the hour to meet again
Creeps on, and speeding o’er the sea,
My heart takes up its lengthen’d chain,
And link by link, draws nearer thee—
When land is hail’d, and, from the shore,
Comes off the blessed breath of home,
With fragrance from my mother’s door