Who, for his fate, through sorrow’s lingering year,
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear;
In that blest moment, all the past forget—
Hours of suspense and vigils of regret!
And oh! for him, the child of rude alarms,
Rear’d by stern danger in the school of arms!
How sweet to change the war-song’s pealing note
For woodland-sounds in summer air that float!
Through vales of peace, o’er mountain wilds to roam,
And breathe his native gales, that whisper—‘Home!’