The soldier woke at the quail’s first note,

At dawn, on the grassy couch where he lay:

“O bird, that calls from the fields of home,

What do my darlings so far away?”

“They are up and ready to roam;

They scatter the dew with their small bare feet,

And laugh as they wade through the meadow sweet.”

The soldier paused on the dusty march,

And stooped by the cooling stream to drink:

“O river, that runs through the fields of home,

What do my dear ones, who dwell on thy brink?”

“Farther and farther they roam—

They are sending their mimic fleets adrift;

And they follow them borne on my current swift.”

The soldier sank on the twilight sward,

And the vigilant lights were thronging above;

“O stars that shine on the fields of home,

What do they now, whom most I love?”

“They have ceased to roam, to roam,—

And are lisping a prayer at their mother’s knee;

And that prayer, and her tears, are for thee, for thee!”