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The vines were but in blossom When he bade me watch them grow, And now the large leaves, mother, Conceal their crimson glow.

He'll bring us shells and sea-weed, And birds of shining wing; But what are these, dear mother? It is himself he'll bring.

Our beautiful Madonna* Will mark how you have wept, The prayers of early morning, The vigils you have kept.

She will guide his stately vessel, Though the sea be dark and drear, Another week of sunshine,— My father will be here.

I'll watch with thee, sweet mother, But the stars fade from my sight, Come, come and sleep, dear mother, Oh, weep no more to-night.