And in his bosom rest?
Fill’d with delight, my raptured soul
Would here no longer stay;
Though Jordan’s waves should o’er me roll,
Fearless I’d launch away.”
With clasped hands and raised eyes, these words the mother sang;
In silv’ry tones on every ear the mournful music rang;
’Twas mournful as the wind-swept harp, that answers to the breeze
Whene’er it sighs complainingly, among the forest trees—
Or voice of lonely nightingale, at evening in the wood,