The Homeward March.

Be still my heart: I hear them come:         Those sounds announce my lover near:     The march that brings our warriors home         Proclaims he'll soon be here.             Hark, the distant tread,             O'er the mountain's head,     While hills and dales repeat the sound;             And the forest deer             Stand still to hear,     As those echoing steps ring round.     Be still my heart. I hear them come,         Those sounds that speak my soldier near;     Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.--         Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.     But hark, more faint the footsteps grow,         And now they wind to distant glades;     Not here their home,--alas, they go         To gladden happier maids!         Like sounds in a dream,         The footsteps seem,     As down the hills they die away;         And the march, whose song         So pealed along,     Now fades like a funeral lay.     'Tis past, 'tis o'er,--hush, heart, thy pain!         And tho' not here, alas, they come,     Rejoice for those, to whom that strain         Brings sons and lovers home.