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THE BRIDE. 117
Father, take back your wandering one
To the spot she had loved the best— You almost trembled to see her rove, She returns for a place of rest: Tear now the vines from the garden bowers, And lay your child with her faded flowers.
Mother, take home the blossom you rear'd,
Which you shielded from every blast;
Its tender petals, wither'd and sear'd,
Return to your bosom at last—
Take back your child to her early home ;
She never more from its scenes may roam.
Brother, your sister returns again,
But she may not gladden the hearth With her former songs—she sings a strain Which cannot be sung on the earth; Yet welcome her back to scenes so dear, She comes to sleep by your pathway here.
And thou, sad one, most bereaved of all,
Haste thee back to thy lonely home, And live—so live, that when death shall call, And thou shalt descend to the tomb, Thy soul may meet, where ties are not riven, Thine angel bride in the light of heaven!