Couldst thou portray that face whose holy spell
Still sheds its peace o'er all the loved at home?
'Tis mine so long in other lands to roam
That her smile only I remember well.

Hers at whose shrine, when sickness on me fell
In childhood, suppliant thou didst kneel, my mother,
And I saw both smile, weep, embrace each other,
And which the sweeter was I could not tell.

When memory now in manhood would recall
Her features who with thee doth share my heart,
Her half-forgotten face seems like to thine;
And both are still to me the source of all
That's best in me of poesy and art, —
Nor either mother could my soul resign.