TO THE WIFE OF THE ABOVE.

Fair daughter of a sunny clime,^[4]
And bride of him we love,
The grief of those who mourn his loss,
Hath power thy heart to move.
E'en now we love thee for his sake,
But not for his alone,
For in thy heart, a chord we find,
That vibrates with our own.
We love thee, while thy feet still roam
Far on a southern shore;
But lead that wand'ring brother home,
And we will love thee more.
Come, range New England's verdant hills,
And breathe our healthful air,
'Twill tinge thy cheeks with brighter bloom,
And make thee still more fair.
Come, while the vernal zephyrs blow,
And wake to life the flowers;
Come, while the feathered warblers sing
Through all our woodland bowers.
What though our leaves will fade and fall.
And chilling north winds blow,
And all New England's hills and vales,
Lie buried deep in snow!
Snug dwellings and warm clothing still
Have power to keep us warm,—
We sit around the fireside then,
And smile to hear the storm.
Come, with thy partner, to that home
Which once he called his own,
Which his long absence oft has made
Most desolate and lone.
Welcome, twice welcome thou shalt be,
Yes, welcome as his bride;
Welcome, I trust, for virtues too,
Which in thy heart abide.
Come, see the grateful tears of joy
Stand trembling in the eye
Of those, who never can forget
The lost one, till they die.
Come, feel the deep impassioned grasp
Of each extended hand,
Which welcomes that lost wanderer back
To his dear native land.
FOOTNOTES:
[4]