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Oh! hath his smile departed?—Could the grave
Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?
—No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave—
That look gives hope—I knew it could not be!

Still weep'st thou, wanderer?—some fond mother's glance
O'er thee too brooded in thine early years—
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance,
Bath'd all thy faded hair with parting tears?
Speak, for thy tears disturb me!—what art thou?
Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on?
Look up!—oh! is it—that wan cheek and brow!—
Is it—alas! yet joy!—my son, my son!