We see their silken ringlets glow amid the moonlight glade;
We hear their voices floating up like pæan songs divine;
Their path is o'er the violet-beds beneath the springing vine!
Restore, sweet spirit of our home! our native hearth restore—
Why are our bosoms desolate, our summer rambles o'er?
Let thy mild light on us be pour'd—our raptures kindle up,
And with a portion of thy bliss illume the household cup.
Yet mourn not, wanderers—onto you a thrilling hope is given,
A tabernacle unconfin'd, an endless home in heaven!
And though ye are divided now, ye shall be made as one