I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft,
In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young,
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
“Stay—stay with us!—rest, thou art weary and worn!”
(And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,)