MOTHER! dear mother! in the distant lands,
Where Alpine mountains seem to touch the sky,
Where crystal rivers flow o'er golden sands,
And the soft breeze that murmurs idling by
Is sweeter than the breath of Araby,—
Long have I wandered since I saw thee last,
And now, my long and lonely wanderings past,
As the bee wings her home at even-tide,
With stores by many a bell and bud supplied,
E'en thus I come,-and from beyond the sea,
I bring these idle records unto thee.
Aye! bright and beautiful afar they glow,
The rose-hued skies that belt the southern land;