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 TURNED a last look to my dear native mountain,
 * As the dim blush of sunset grew pale in the sky;

All was still, save the music that leaped from the fountain,
 * And the wave of the woods to the summer-wind’s sigh.

Far around, the gray mist of the twilight was stealing,
 * And the tints of the landscape had faded in blue,

Ere my pale lip could murmur the accents of feeling,
 * As it bade the fond scenes of my childhood adieu.

Oh! mock not that pang, for my heart was retracing
 * Past visions of happiness, sparkling and clear:

My heart was still warm with a mother’s embracing,
 * My cheek was still wet with a fond sister’s tear.

Like an infant’s first sleep on the lap of its mother,
 * Were the days of my childhood—those days are no more;

And my sorrow’s deep throb I had struggled to smother
 * Was that infant’s wild cry when its first sleep was o’er.