Through the mist of the past slow coming, they give to our
eyes once more,
What Death has stolen from me, and Death can alone restore.

Again, as in early childhood, I feel the fond caress
Of my mother's lips, or I hear the tones of my father's voice
that bless
His child in its gleeful gambols; Oh! happy and peaceful
hours!
Ye come in visions of golden noons, and sunshine, and shady
bowers!

And the low-breathed prayer when the sunset glow'd crimson in
the West,
And the sweet "Good-night," and the tender kiss, ere I sank
to tranquil rest;
Mother! that prayer still haunts me, adown the dreary years,
And the earnest tones of thy gentle voice, can steep my soul
in tears.

My brothers! faithful hearted! strong in your love, and true;
Oh! breaking heart, do you mock me? Can _they_ have
perished too?
In their morning time, when they shared my dreams of a Crown
and a Life-fight won,
Thank God, it was their's so early, when my fight had but
begun!

Oh, darling, best-beloved! keen now is the aching smart,
As when Death's chill touch on our clasped hands fell, when