I.
When one returneth from a distant land,
Where he hath been in pilgrimage afar,
And seeks once with wandering foot to stand
Beneath the brightness of his country's star,
It is with beating heart and joyful eyes,
He views the long remembered scenes again,
The mountains far, ascending to the skies,
The verdant hills more near, the flowering plain,
The willow shaded stream, the fields of golden grain.

II.
The cottage maids their spinning-wheel delay,
And from the window look with well-pleased eye;
And gray-haired men, that sit beside the way,
Arise to bless him, as he passes by.
He finds, as round he casts his gladdened look,
The friendly 'Welcome Home' in every thing;
In ancient elms, and in the well-known brook,
In vines, that o'er the talking waters cling,
And from the singing birds, that clap their joyful wing.

III.
I too have been a Pilgrim. On the shore,
Where wide Ohio flows, I cast my lot;
But, while I trimmed my vine and plucked my store,
My childhood's dwelling-place was ne'er forgot.
I ever deemed the time would come at last,
Though cast upon a far and venturous track,
To take my staff, as in the days long past,
And to my father's cottage travel back,
Where yet he lives and toils, upon the Merrimack.

IV.
That time hath come. With grateful heart I hear
The sounding river with its waters wide.
Sweetly its heavy murmur strikes mine ear,
Borne through the oaks, that crown its verdant side.
The golden day reveals its parting glow;
And where yon window, with its flickering light,
Dim through the interposing woods doth show,
That cluster round the gently rising height,
At last my father's home repays my straining sight.

V.
The watchful dog patrols the narrow track,
That joins the household to the public road;
He barks aloud, then playful hastens back,
As if to guide me to that loved abode.
The patient ox comes weary from the hill;
The tinkling sheep-fold bell is sounding near;
Sudden I hear the nightly whippoorwill;
The cheerful cottage window shines more clear;
And mingling sounds, well known, rejoice my wakeful ear.

VI.
And see! What venerable form is there?
'Tis he, my father's self surviving yet.
Before his cottage door, with temples bare,
He thoughtful marks the sun's resplendent set.
With beaming heart his doubting eye I claimed;
He gave a startled, momentary view;
But ere his faltering tongue his wanderer named,
My arms, impatient, round his neck I threw,
Nor could the gushing tear, and voice of joy subdue.

VII.
And thou, he said, hast found me, ere I die;
Welcome to your old father's arms, my son!
White is my head, and dim my aged eye;
But thou hast cheered me ere my race is run.
Then quickly, with a heart relieved from care,
And vigorous step, he hastened on before;
His aged tresses swept the evening air;
And as he reached his hand, and oped the door,
He bade me welcome back, to friends and home once more.

VIII.
That moment was beyond the Poet's pen,
A moment of the heart, and graven there.
There sat my father, most reverend of men;
There sat my mother in her spacious chair.
Bright beamed the fire; and round its cheerful blaze
Two little brothers, full of noisy joy,
('Twas thus with me in other distant days,)
Recalled the time, when I too was a boy,
And loved in childish sports the moments to employ.

IX.
And as I scanned each object o'er and o'er,
And marked with care the venerable place,
In wall and window, beam and sanded floor,
The signs and records of the past I trace.
They seemed like old companions; and mine eyes,
Like one in search of treasures under ground,
Who sods, and rocks, and gaping crevice tries,
Renewed their searching glances round, and round,
Till all the past revived, in mingling sight and sound.

X.
The same capacious hearth, expanding wide,
The spacious kettle on its length of crane,
The settle, stationed at the chimney side,
Just as in other times, they all remain,
Substantial all, as they were wont to be.
Affecting sight! To me they all were dear,
Since all were consecrate in memory.
The massy oaken chair is standing near;
And pleased, the ticking of the eight-day clock I hear.

XI.
My mother had unnumbered things to say,
And, as she spoke, alternate wept and smiled;
Changed was her face, her scattered locks were gray,
But still she loved, the same, her pilgrim child.
Well pleased she saw, while often to the heart
Their hopeless blightings time and distance bring,
The love of childhood's home doth ne'er depart,
But like some flower, which blooms with endless spring,
Repels the Autumn's frost, the Winter's withering.

XII.
Slowly have passed the long, the twenty years,
Since first I parted from this social fire;
Sad was the hour, and many were the tears,
But hope was high, and strength of purpose higher.
But here, at last, I stand once more, and find
Old objects faithful to their ancient place;
And where the form is changed, unchanged the mind.
If lapse of years hath plucked some outward grace,
Yet could it not the heart, the fount of love, displace.

XIII.
But who is this with form so tall and fair,
A woman grown, and yet in beauty's prime,
With kindling eye, and darkly flowing hair?
The same, the cherished one, who many a time,
I carried in mine arms, and loved so much;
Who went with me o'er hill and ridgy steep,
(I fondly thought there was no other such,)
To call the cows, and tend the gentle sheep,
And ever at my side did, prattling, love to keep.

XIV.
Loved sister Mary! Give me one caress,
Sacred to memory and other years!
The generous maid cannot her soul repress,
But sought my arms, and bathed her face in tears,
Nor deem it wrong, if heaven may aught bestow,
To pray for blessings on that radiant head.
For me alas! Such bliss I ne'er shall know,
As when abroad her childish steps I led,
Amid the 'vernal year,' or blooms that summer shed.

XV.
Swift spread the news of my unlooked return,
And called with busy haste the neighbors in;
They grasp my hand, and eagerly would learn,
What I have seen, and where so long have been.
Some were young girls, to woman's beauty grown;
Some were old men, who looked no older now;
Some were young lads, whom at the school I'd known,
But now, erect with manhood's ample brow,
They bore the sinewy arm, that rules the spade and plough.

XVI.
If they of distant scenes desired to learn,
And bent with eager gaze my tale to hear,
I too, with heart as eager, asked in turn,
Of scenes that nearer lay, but doubly dear.
Full many were the thoughts, that filled my mind,
Of sylvan sights, that once delighted me;
Nor was the heartfelt pleasure small to find,
Of hills and brooks, of fields and favorite tree,
So closely like the past, the present history.

XVII.
Still flowed my loved, my native stream; and o'er
Its solitary path hung arching still
The same luxuriant vine. The beech still bore
Its tempting nuts, where I was wont to fill
My eager hands, when, at the sun's decline,
I trod the vales, the errant flocks to call.
Still built the crow upon the ancient pine;
And where the oak o'erspread the waterfall,
The squirrel watched his hoard, and kept his airy hall.

XVIII.
And oft I asked, with sympathy sincere,
Who yet were living, who had sunk to rest?
Whom fortune in her smiles had come to cheer,
Or, deep in poverty and grief, depressed?
Where were the lads, whose pleasures ever new
At early eve resounded long and loud?
And where the men, so gravely stern and true,
Strong in their aged locks, the fields that ploughed,
Though now perchance gone hence, or sorrowfully bowed?

XIX.
The sturdy miller, had he still his jest,
As rough and honest, as in days of yore?
And poor, decrepid Jenks, among the rest,
Did he still beg his bread from door to door?
And she, with scrutinizing features old,
That sought into the maiden's palm to pry,
Hath she her last, prophetic legend told?
Thus went inquiry round, 'in converse high,'
And heart leaped forth to heart, and kindling eye to eye.

XX.
And now the eve was far advanced and dim,
And closing round the fire, as in my youth,
We reverently sung the Evening Hymn,
And then my father read the Word of Truth.
The sight of that Old Bible moved my heart,
And stirred anew the scarcely sleeping tears.
From childhood, till the morn that saw me part,
I ever knew it, clasped, and dark with years,
At morn and eve brought forth, to wake our hopes and fears.

XXI.
And then he offered up the Evening Prayer,
Poured from a humble, reverential breast;
Not the mere show of truth and love was there,
The heart acknowledged what the lips expressed.
He uttered thanks, that, ere his days were passed,
He saw, save one that mouldered in the earth,
(Too bright that loved one's joyful beam to last,)
His scattered children gathered to his hearth.
Thus God his people loves; nor scorns their humble worth.

XXII.
There are some men, that make a scoff at prayer,
At early morn, or at the close of day.
Ah, little do they know, how grief and care
Before true supplication melt away.
How pleasant 'tis, when sorrows pierce the heart,
To tell them to our heavenly Father's ear!
He plucks with gentle hand the hostile dart,
And, even when he looks with frown severe,
Is ever prompt to bend, his children's griefs to hear.

XXIII.
At morning's light I held my pensive track
Where scattered elms and mourning willows grew,
Along the deeply-sounding Merrimack.
A little hillock met my anxious view;
'Twas my loved Lucy's grave, my sister's grave,
Her grassy turf and monumental stone.
Nought but the sympathizing woods and wave
Beheld my bitter grief, and heard my moan;
'Twas good to shed the tear; 'twas good to be alone.

XXIV.
How oft around the hearth, the eve before,
I cast my eyes, but saw no Lucy near;
She was not named, lest naming should restore
The mournful memory, the bitter tear.
She was the sister next to me in age.
Companion of my walks, with me she took,
Along the hills, her summer pilgrimage,
Or climbed the rocks, or sought the shaded brook,
That in its mirror bright gave back her maiden look.

XXV.
Together to the distant school we went,
And when the snows perplexed the doubtful way,
The helping hand to guide her forth I lent,
Well pleased my skill and courage to display.
And often with a kind solicitude,
When weary I returned from plough or spade,
She wiped my heated brow, and brought my food,
And in her smiles and sylvan grace arrayed,
More than a brother's care, a brother's love repaid.

XXVI.
Mary and Lucy! Those were household names,
That messages to joyous fancy brought,
And urged my heart their sacred claims,
Whatever lands my wandering footsteps sought.
They were my only sisters. One is gone;
And though a sister lives to bless me yet,
That other star, which o'er my pathway shone,
Beneath the ocean wave, its ray is set,
But never shall this heart, this mourning heart forget.