Hid the moon and the stars in their cloud-shrouded tomb,
Of the fair, but the far-distant past!
Around him a vision of beauty arose,
Unpainted, unpencilled by art,—
His home, father, mother, sweet peace and repose,
From the sad repertoire of the heart.
And brightly the visions came gliding along
Through the warm golden gates of the day,—
With voices of childhood, and music and song,
Like echoes from lands far away.