The mists obscured the mountain peaks,
And hid their hoary heads;
While through the cloud-chinks, glory streaks
Illumed the verdant meads,
Which shone like patchwork in the glen,
Mid fields of upturned soil;
Where many a group of hardy men
Pursued their cheerful toil. Sweet robin, every now and then
Would sing his little trill;
While thrush and blackbird, down the glen,
Sang love songs louder still.
The noisy streamlets in their flight
Adown the hazel dell
Kept up a hum of sweet delight,
Like to the organ's swell. 'Twas Spring, the time of love and flowers,
When Earth is all aglow;
And genial heat and fertile showers,
Cause seed and plants to grow:
The hawthorn blossoms sweetly shed
Their odours on the gale,
And 'Flora' in profusion spread
Her gems o'er all the vale. 'Twas love and beauty all around,
But grief within my heart;
The morn had come and I was bound
With friends and home to part.
'Twas hard to tear my heart away,
And break the magic spell
Which bound me to my home that day
I bade my friends farewell. But why dwell on the parting scene--
The tear-be-sprinkled face--
The prayer, the look of faith serene--
The kiss and fond embrace.
All past, yet in my memory still
The scene appears, as when
I took the last look from the hill
Of my dear, native glen. Tho' many a year since then has fled,
And many a change has come--
Most of the loved ones now are dead,
Who blessed my childhood's home.
Yet still no matter where I rove,
The fairest spot on earth
Shall be that hallowed home of love,
Where I received my birth.
- S. Moore