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It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves, The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves! —The hour the mother loves!—for me belov'd it hath not been; Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed scene! Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come— —Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?

"Not as the dead!—no, not the dead!—We speak of them—we keep Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep! We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung, We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band among! But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth! I go!—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell When mine is a forgotten voice.—Woods, mountains, home, farewell!

"And farewell, mother!—I have borne in lonely silence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong!