Where we used to watch our flocks,--
Farther down the winding road,
See! it is our own abode.

Where the slanting sunbeams fall
On the lowly cottage wall,
Fancy can already trace
Each belov'd, familiar face:
One by one each form appears
Till our eyes are dim with tears;
If the foretaste be so sweet
Soon our joy will be complete!

Here we are! But all is still
Save the ever-murmuring rill,--
Save the hooting of the owl,
And the village watch-dog's howl,
Slowly swings the cottage door--
Shall we cross the threshold o'er?
Empty and deserted all--
Echo answers to our call!

Where the bending willow tree
Oft has sheltered thee and me,
Lo, the turf has been uptorn:
We have come,--but come to mourn!
Eyes are dim and lips are cold,
And our arms we sadly fold
Over hearts, till hushed and dead,
Never to be comforted!