Into her mother's face!-and, wakening, knew Sweet mother! gentlest mother !—can it be?' The lorn one cried And do I gaze on thee? Take home thy wanderer from this fatal shorePeace shall be ours, amidst our vines once more!' Mrs Hemans. SERENADE. As the wild bird sings in his brake, my love, In the twilight's rosy hour, To the white winged queen of the lake, my love, As the zephyrs by night awake, my love, Will their fairy harp inspire, Even so for thy blessed sake, my love, The stars have met in the clear blue sky- As the hind will pant for the mountain stream That winds through his wooded glade ;— As the flower will thirst for the sunny beam, Or die in its wintry shade ; As the forest-dove will repine, my love, To be near his mate's sweet breast ; - So my heart is sighing for thine, my love, O the waves will change in the summer brook, The dove by her forest mate be forsook, The flower of the valley estranged, my dear, I only shall live unchanged, my dear, In the love that I bear to thee. Then arise-let us meet in bliss, my love, She comes; Here I listening stand; Oh descend-yet wave me a kiss, my love; 'One kiss from thy lily hand.' An aged widow with one only child, And even he was far away at sea; Narrow and mean the street wherein she dwelt, Like a memorial of far better days, The large old Bible, with its silver clasps, Lay on the table; and a fragrant air Came from the window: there stood a rose tree- With thousand buds and beautifully blown flowers: The cottage, once her own, which ever drew Where her home stood the home where yet she thought That made life pleasant, and it had been fed By the so ardent spirits of her boy, Who said that God would bless the efforts made Each Sunday came, for then her patient way That looked so seldom on them. She would sit Long after service on a grave, and watch The cattle as they grazed, the yellow corn, The lane where yet her home might be; and then Return with lightened heart to her dull street, A shout awoke the sleeping town, the night And joined the shout; the windows gleamed with lights, Were filled with people; even the lone street Where the poor widow dwelt was roused, and sleep Brought dear ones to the land, how every voice Grew musical with happiness! And there |