That I should ever come,
Fearing the lonely echo of a tread,
Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead!
Lead on! my orphan boy!
Thy home is not so desolate to thee,
And the low shiver in the linden tree
May bring to thee a joy;
But, oh! how dark is the bright home before thee,
To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee!
Lead on! for thou art now