Morn—noon—are past; the lights of even
Shoot streaming up from bower and hill;
The stars have ta’en their watch in heaven,
And all the wearied earth is still.
Why com’st thou not, oh lingering rover?
Why com’st thou not to love and me?
The day’s perplexing cares are over,
And e’en the toiling slave is free.
Our board is spread—the lamp is shining,
And summer’s coolest fruits are there;
But this lone weary heart repining,
Until thou com’st the scene to share.
Hasten thy steps, oh lingering rover!
And bring thy smiles to love and me.
The day’s dull heartless toils are over,
And e’en the labouring hind is free.
Leave Fortune’s mart, where toil and sorrow
Oft shade thy brow and cloud thy brain;
Soon will return the cheerless morrow,
And call thy heart to care again.
These hours, at least, oh lingering rover!
Demand thy smiles for home and me.
Come!—the day’s wearying toils are over,
And night—night sets the labourer free.