Could the pinions of Fancy, oh, really bear,
So swiftly and surely, our forms through the air,
As nightly they seem in my slumber to do.
How soon, my dear mother, they'd waft me to you!

But fancy, alas! hath no power like this,
Though her wand often calls up the shadows of bliss;
And oft, by the aid of her magic, I seem
In the land that I only can visit in dream.

Between us, dear parent, a blue ocean rolls —
But though pathless and stormy, it severs not souls;
And whene'er I recline in my hammock to rest,
I see thee in visions — those visions are blest!

The day fast approaches when o'er the wild sea
Will the Rover return to his country, and thee,
And each tear-drop be dried in a sun-burst of joy,
As thou fold'st to thy bosom the wanderer-boy.

When my foot shall again tread the land of my birth,
The loveliest, the bravest, the best on the earth,
When my hand in the grasp of affection is wrung,
And the voice of sweet welcome is heard on each tongue —

Oh! think ye not then that my heart will throb high
With that voiceless delight, which illumines the eye,
Which is breathed in the sigh, and is shed in the tear,
But which words have no power to pour on the ear?

Yes, yes! when the scenes of my childhood again,
Like a shadow afar, fringe the verge of the main,
Forgotten the past in the bliss of return —
With the richest of rapture my bosom will burn!