And with dawning of thought is thy memory wove,
The grief and the pining that prey on my breast;
The longing to soar to thy dwelling above,
And repose in thine arms in the Land of the Blest.
I have never seen parents their children caress,
Or soothe into quiet their heart-breathing
When the storm of misfortune around them did press,
But the tears of affection arose to mine eyes:
I have ne’er met a maid by the side of her sire,
Or beheld in the festal a father who kept