  What visions of happiness often steal o’er me, As back to my childhood in fancy I roam; And the picture that mem’ry paints brightest before me, Is mother, dear mother,—the angel of home. No love’s like a mother’s, so true and so tender, No love’s so enduring ’neath heaven’s broad dome; And not all earth’s wealth with its pomp and its splendor, Could steal my affection from mother and home. |
|
