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.