Sweet mother! let me weep!
And like a slight young tree, that throws
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs,
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing
Is the human heart—as a mountain spring
That works its way, through the torrent’s foam,
To the bright pool near it, the lily’s home!
It is well!—The cloud on her soul that lay,
Hath melted in glittering drops away.
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre!