To those who were dear in the past.
The wanderer far, far from kindred and friends,
In fancy revisits his dear native cot;
He views the clear stream where the willow tree bends,
And the cowslips that brighten the spot.
He views the dark wood and the green sloping hill,
The porch, with its graceful white jessamine hung,
The half-open window that looks on the mill,
And the garden where honey-bees hum.
And before him appear, as distinct as of yore,