They tell us of an Indian tree,

  Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky

May tempt its boughs to wander free,

  And shoot and blossom wide and high,

Far better loves to bend its arms

  Downward again to that dear earth,

From which the life that, fills and warms

  Its grateful being, first had birth.

'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,

  And fed with fame (if fame it be)

This heart, my own dear mother, bends,

  With love's true instinct, back to thee!