For, all the host around thee burning,
Like faithless man, keep turning, turning.
In the dark top of southern pines
I nestled, when the driver’s horn
Called to the field, in lengthening lines,
My fellows, at the break of morn.
And there I lay, till thy sweet face
Looked in upon my ‘hiding place,’
Star of the North!
Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth,