I heard thy holy voice arise in prayer;
Oh mother! mother! thou thyself wert there!
Thou, by the placid brow, the thoughtful eye,
The clasping hand, the voice of melody.
I clung around thy neck—thy tears fell fast,
Like rain in summer, yet the sorrow past;
And smiles, more beautiful than e’en the last,
Play’d on thy lip, dear mother! such it wore
To bless our early home in days of yore.
Then wild and grand arose my native hills—