We our harps neglected hung.
Soon again they will be strung,--
Forest, dell, and mountain stream
Will take up the blissful theme
When no longer doomed to roam
We can chant the praise of home.

Lo, in yonder sky the sun
Half his daily task has done;
We will rest beside the spring,
While the bird with folded wing
Sits within his cool retreat,
Shaded from the noontide heat,
And the bees, with drowsy hum,
Homeward, honey-laden come.

Homeward too our way we hold,
Laden, not with paltry gold,
But with treasures better far
Than the richest jewels are:
Simple, trusting hearts, content
With the blessings Heaven has lent.
Once within our love-lit cot,
Rich and great we envy not.

Lo, the shadows lengthen fast;
Now the well-known hills are past;
Now the forest, dark and tall--
Oh, how we remember all!
Now the pastures strewn with rocks,