And, with her bright locks bow’d to sweep the ground,
Lifting her voice up, wept for joy and said—
“Bless me, my father! bless me! and with thee,
To the still cabin and the beechen tree,
Let me return!”
Oh! never did thine eye
Through the green haunts of happy infancy
Wander again, Joanne! Too much of fame
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name;
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price—