Whose voice was ne’er in thy mountains heard.”
“Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight’s fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree
To the babe half slumbering on her knee:
I dreamt last night of that music low—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”
“Thy mother is gone, from her cares to rest—
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy! no more,