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Pure on Olympus shines the sun-touched snow;
Fair blooms the rose by Brenta's classic strand.
And Spain! delightful Spain ! yet wandering there,
Whether at morn I trod the mountain's brow,

Or skimmed at eve the glassy waters, where
Round Græcia's isles they musically flow,

My heart was with thee, Mother! and a sigh,When thou wert standing 'mid thy own home trees, To breathe at day's sweet fall the evening breeze, As the soft south wind kissed thy forehead mild,— Came to thee murmuring from thy absent child,

Freighted with longings after days gone by.

And oft, how oft, within their festive bowers,
When the light harp woke lighter echoes round,
From glancing feet, and, mingling with the sound,
Came fragrant odours from wild orange flowers,-
When songs were sung and merry tales were told,
Surrounded by the young, the gay, the fair,

I only shared not in the joyance there.

I knew them heartless, and I felt them cold,

And strange sad visions o'er my soul would come,

Of a far land, and of a lowly home,—

Of one dear voice that spoke but to approve,— One beaming smile,- one fondly clasping hand! Sweet is the memory of a mother's love—

Dwelling with strangers, in a stranger land.

Mother! methinks, it is a sacred word :-
Let it be spoken,-lo! a sudden gush

Of childhood's days,-of first fresh feelings rush Over the heart, as though by magic stirred:

The morning prayer when all was soft and still,-— The fond caress when lesson-time drew nigh,— The treasured cake, a balm for every ill,The mild reproof when no one else was by,— The evening walk across the spicy heath,The wild bird's song,-the river's peaceful flow,The hedge be-dropped with many a starry wreath,—— The bank all pale with primroses below.

Ah! plodding sadly on life's sterner track, When clouds are dark and thorns bestrew our way, And hope has perished from our path away, How oft the pilgrim with a sigh looks back! A word is breathed,—the key-note of the strain,— And the man weeps, and is a child again.

Mother! sweet mother! first and fondest friend,
My task, at last,—my pleasant task is o'er;
And thou wilt read the trifling legends penned
For thee, on many a fair and foreign shore;
And as the Moslem, anxious to engage

A blessing on his work, with prayers and tears, Inscribes upon his first and fairest page,

That name—the holiest—which he most reveres,
Thus thy dear name shall be the first to meet,—
To meet and to disarm the critic's eye.
Ah! surely 'twill have power to sanctify
The after pages, with its influence sweet:
They will not pass a judgment too severe
Upon the book, albeit of little worth,

Which, with a trembling hand and many a fear,
Into the rude rough world is ushered forth,
Asking no stranger's praise-laying no claim
To the least floweret of the wreath of fame :
A simple garland-of mere wood-flowers wild,
An offering to a Mother from her Child.

Grove House, Richmond,


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