Page:Notes of the Mexican war 1846-47-48.djvu/593

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 Homeward our feet are turned once more, The last to leave, the first to land, And now press forward to the shore That girds our free northern land; Oh! how the heart with rapture thrills, How leap in thought our mountain rills. And waves, after the golden grain, Upon our home-fields wide and far, That shall see and tread again. Wooed by our own sweet summer air.

Homeward—how much is in that word! Home that we left several years ago, When first the blast of war was heard On hill above, in vale below; Then how our yeomen hurried forth From East and West and North and South; They met and vanquished oft the foe On many a hard, bloody contested field, Where, with their banners torn and low, We saw his boasting legions yield.

But this is past, peace has returned. Our blades are sheathed and still now— Blades that on many fields have earned Bright laurels for the wearer's brow; And our gallant soldiers' duty done. We leave this land of bloom and sun. Its never-changing summer time, Its gardens and its olive groves. Its avenues of fragrant thyme, Its fetes, its intrigues, and its loves.

Oh! land of beauty, peerless, bright, Of snow-capped peaks and smiling plains, Yet shrouded in a darker night Than ever Egypt's shrines remains; The stranger parting from the shores, Thy glories to behold no more. Bids thee farewell with swelling heart, As his swift bark leaps over the sea, And, as the truant tear-drops start. Prays God that thou mayest yet be free.