Till', norgiiF.i. 
3fi 
When pain oppress’d—her tireless care 
To teach him lessons good and true, 
Her oft repeated hope and prayer 
That lie might virtue’s path pursue ; 
All tli ese fond memories cluster now 
Around the captives heart—their power 
Is like the Sun’s reviving glow. 
In Spring’s enchanted hour. 
“ Oh, God, and can it truly be 
*• A wretch so lost, so vile as me 
“ Could e’er have been so deeply bless’d 
“ With such a love ? Did that pure ray 
“ In truth illume my childhood’s day ? 
“ Ah, would to Heaven that Death’s cold hand 
“ Had lain me in an early grave, 
“ E’er I had slighted one command 
“ That sainted mother gave !” 
These burning words the captive said, 
Then bent his form and bow’d his head 
And wept—aye, wept! the man of crime. 
Freely as in life’s holier time ! 
Thus, he, whose spirit woe and pain 
And gloomy cell and galling chain 
Had fail’d to soften or subdue, 
Now melted to remorseful tears, 
To penitence sincere and true, 
Before those fairy flowers. And she 
Who came to bear them to her bower 
Wept too, with wondering joy, to see 
This last sweet token of their power. 
“ Ah, never more I’ll fondly cjream 
“ Or wish to claim my treasures fair, 
“ So dear to mortal homes they seem 
