Far in the dark old forest glades,
Where kalmias bloom around,
They had their place of youthful sport,
Their childhood's hunting-ground,—
And swinging lightly in the vines
That o'er the wigwam hung,
The golden robins, building near,
Above their dwelling sung.
Each morn their little dusky feet
Sprang down the sparkling lea,
To plunge beneath the glowing stream
Beside the chestnut tree;
And when the hiding squirrel's nest
They sought, far up the hills,
They bathed their reeking foreheads cool
Among the mountain rills.
They saw the early silver moon
Peep through her wavy bower,
And in her beams they chased the bat
Around his leafy tower;
And, when the stars all silently
Went out o'er hill and plain,
They listened low to merry chimes
Of Summer evening rain.
These haunts they missed,—the city air
No healthful music brings,—
They longed to run through woodland dells,
Where Nature ever sings;
And, drooping, mid the noise and glare,
They pined for brook and glen,
And, dying, still looked fondly back,
And asked for Home again.