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A peasant group, whose lips are full of prayer And hearts of home affections, such as flow So naturally in piety.

and darker fall around The shadows from the pine, It is the hour with hymn and prayer To gather round thy shrine.

Hear us, sweet Mother! thou hast known Our earthly hopes and fears, The bitterness of mortal toil, The tenderness of tears.

We pray thee first for absent ones, Those who knelt with us here— The father, brother, and the son, The distant, and the dear.

We pray thee for the little bark Upon the stormy sea; Affection's anxiousness of love, Is it not known to thee?

The soldier, he who only sleeps His head upon his brand, Who only in a dream can see His own beloved land.

The wandering minstrel, he who gave Thy hymns his earliest tone, Who strives to teach a foreign tongue The music of his own.

Kind Mother, let them see again Their own Italian shore;