Feels the fond arms of his mother, as of old, about him thrown,
And the fair cheek of his sister pressing soft against his own!
Or he strays amid the moonlight, in a cool and shadowy grove,
Looking down with earnest glances into eyes that look back love!
All beloved tones are calling sweetly through his heart again,
And its dying pulse is quickened by the phantoms of his brain!
And belovéd names he murmurs, while his bosom heaves and swells,
For in dreams again he liveth through his partings and farewells!
Slowly sinks the sun—night’s shadows round the lonely pilgrim spread —
While the rising night-winds gently lift the light scarf from his head,