THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

Be still my heart: I hear them come:

Those sounds announce my lover near:

The march that brings our warriors home

Proclaims he'll soon be here.

Hark, the distant tread,

O'er the mountain's head,

While hills and dales repeat the sound;

And the forest deer

Stand still to hear,

As those echoing steps ring round.

Be still my heart. I hear them come,

Those sounds that speak my soldier near;

Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.—

Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.

But hark, more faint the footsteps grow,

And now they wind to distant glades;

Not here their home,— alas, they go

To gladden happier maids!

Like sounds in a dream,

The footsteps seem,

As down the hills they die away;

And the march, whose song

So pealed along,

Now fades like a funeral lay.

‘ Tis past,‘ tis o'er,— hush, heart, thy pain!

And tho’ not here, alas, they come,

Rejoice for those, to whom that strain

Brings sons and lovers home.