The exile hath returned, and now at last
In kindred earth his ashes shall repose.—
Fit recompense for all his weary past
That here the scene should end,—the drama close.
Here where his own loved skies o'erarch the spot,
And where familiar trees their branches wave;
Where the dear home-born flowers he ne'er forgot
Shall bloom, and shed their dews upon his grave.
Will not the wood-thrush, pausing in her flight,
Carol more sweetly o'er this place of rest?
Here linger longest in the fading light,
Before she seeks her solitary nest?
Not his the lofty lyre, but one whose strings
Were gently touched to soothe our human kind,—
Like the mysterious harp that softly sings,
Swept by the unseen fingers of the wind.
The home-sick wanderer in a distant land,
Listening his song has known a double bliss;—
Felt the warm pressure of a father's hand,
And—seal of seals!—a mother's sacred kiss.
In humble cottage, as in hall of state,
His truant fancy never ceased to roam
O'er backward years, and—irony of fate!—
Of home he sang who never found a home!—
Not even in death, poor wanderer, till now,—
For long his ashes slept in alien soil.
Will they not thrill to-day, as round his brow
A fitting wreath is twined with loving toil?
Honor and praise be his whose generous hand
Brought the sad exile back, no more to roam;
Back to the bosom of his own loved land—
Back to his kindred, friends, his own Sweet Home!