cams_benton_b028_f008_001_007

7 [centered]

Hush, hush! A plaint, a voice of wail
Floats faintly on the dying gale;
And through a distant castle's halls,
Along its dim and ancient walls,
A sigh steals on – it speaks of doom,
A noteless grave, an early tomb.

A Son returns! Fond mother, come,
He waits thy dear caress;
Once more upon that lofty brow
Thy lips in fondness press.
And think not upon the Emperor,
The chief, the mighty man;
But clasp again thy fair-haired boy,
Thy youthful Corsican.
Ah! Age and grief have dimmed thine eyes;
But, placed upon that head,
A mother's hand would recognise [recognize] –
That mother, too, is dead.