Those forms, whose eyes reflected heaven in their mild depth of blue,
Whose hair was like the wave that shines o'er sands of golden hue?
Are these the altars of their rest, the pure and sacred shrines;
Where Memory, rapt o'er visions fled, her holy spell combines?
The sire, the child, oh, waft them back to their delightful dell,
When, like a voice from heavenly lands, awakes the curfew bell.
And have they no remembrance here, the cheeks that softly glow'd,
The amber hair, that, on the breeze, in gleaming tresses flow'd,
The hymn which hail'd the Sabbath morn,—the fix'd and fervid eye;
Must these sweet treasures of the heart in shade and silence lie?