The Poetry Corner

The Homeward March.

By Thomas Moore

Be still my heart: I hear them come: Those sounds announce my lover near: The march that brings our warriors home Proclaims he'll soon be here. Hark, the distant tread, O'er the mountain's head, While hills and dales repeat the sound; And the forest deer Stand still to hear, As those echoing steps ring round. Be still my heart. I hear them come, Those sounds that speak my soldier near; Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.-- Rest, rest, he'll soon be here. But hark, more faint the footsteps grow, And now they wind to distant glades; Not here their home,--alas, they go To gladden happier maids! Like sounds in a dream, The footsteps seem, As down the hills they die away; And the march, whose song So pealed along, Now fades like a funeral lay. 'Tis past, 'tis o'er,--hush, heart, thy pain! And tho' not here, alas, they come, Rejoice for those, to whom that strain Brings sons and lovers home.