Fair visions yet, my native land,
Will o'er my lone heart come.
Whene'er I think of friendship's haunts,
Or childhood's peaceful home.
Or love's delightful wanderings,
When she, who shares my lot.
First plucked from 'mong the violets
The sweet forget-me-not.
And then the beauty of such dreams
Will radiate o'er my heart.
Till bitterly I weep, to think
That we were forced to part.
And Heaven two sinless infants lent,
Whose graves are told with thine—
They came and went so angel-like,
I dare not call them mine.
And memory, when her mystic chain
Back o'er the past she flings.
Nothing so beautiful as they
From all her treasures brings.
For their sweet sakes, my native land!
Even if I loved not thee.
My heart would hover o'er thee still.
Where'er my home might be!
