Then full often backward glancing, took the weary march again,
Onward pressing toward the waters, gleaming far across the plain.
Silent lies the one forsaken, in this hour of pain and fear,
While their farewells and their footsteps die upon his failing ear;
With the withered turf his death-couch, ’neath the burning heat of day,
All unhearing and unheeding, for his soul is far away!
In the dear home of his childhood, in a pleasant northern land,
He beholds about him smiling the familiar household band;
Sees, perchance, his father coming homeward, through the twilight gray —
Listens to his merry brothers, laughing in their childish play —