The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL. |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL.
“Von Bäumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern,
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind;
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern?
Komm' spielen, du freundliches Kind!”
La Motte Fouqué.
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind;
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern?
Komm' spielen, du freundliches Kind!”
La Motte Fouqué.
O! when wilt thou return
To thy spirit's early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,
To the stillness of the groves?
To thy spirit's early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,
To the stillness of the groves?
The Summer-birds are calling
Thy household porch around,
And the merry waters falling
With sweet laughter in their sound.
Thy household porch around,
And the merry waters falling
With sweet laughter in their sound.
And a thousand bright-vein'd flowers,
From their banks of moss and fern,
Breathe of the sunny hours—
But when wilt thou return?
From their banks of moss and fern,
Breathe of the sunny hours—
But when wilt thou return?
Oh! thou hast wander'd long
From thy home without a guide;
And thy native woodland song,
In thine alter'd heart hath died.
From thy home without a guide;
And thy native woodland song,
In thine alter'd heart hath died.
185
Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy Spring;
And to thee the leaves' light play
Is a long-forgotten thing.
And the glory of thy Spring;
And to thee the leaves' light play
Is a long-forgotten thing.
But when wilt thou return?—
Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower, within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.
Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower, within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.
O'er the image of the sky,
Which the lake's clear bosom wore,
Darkly may shadows lie—
But not for evermore.
Which the lake's clear bosom wore,
Darkly may shadows lie—
But not for evermore.
Give back thy heart again
To the freedom of the woods,
To the birds' triumphant strain,
To the mountain solitudes!
To the freedom of the woods,
To the birds' triumphant strain,
To the mountain solitudes!
But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own pure air,
There are young sweet voices borne—
Oh! should not thine be there?
Along thine own pure air,
There are young sweet voices borne—
Oh! should not thine be there?
Still at thy father's board
There is kept a place for thee;
And, by thy smile restored,
Joy round the hearth shall be.
There is kept a place for thee;
And, by thy smile restored,
Joy round the hearth shall be.
Still hath thy mother's eye,
Thy coming step to greet,
A look of days gone by,
Tender and gravely sweet.
Thy coming step to greet,
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Tender and gravely sweet.
Still, when the prayer is said,
For thee kind bosoms yearn,
For thee fond tears are shed—
Oh! when wilt thou return?
For thee kind bosoms yearn,
For thee fond tears are shed—
Oh! when wilt thou return?
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |