My soul spreads her pinions and soars like a dove,—
Yet I'm drawn back to earth by one tender tie,
Which oft clogs my wings;—then, oh! how can I fly!
I think of New England, my fair native land,
The friends of my childhood, that dear faithful band,
Who're waiting to greet me with hearts full of love,
Not knowing my bark will cast anchor above.
To see me, my kindred impatiently wait,—
I think of those dear ones,—my soul's in a strait,—
My father, my mother, my dear orphan son,—