The Homeward March.

A poem by Thomas Moore

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.

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