THE RETURN.
Oh, the peaceful, quiet village, nestling midst the Bohemian hills,
With its humble straw-thatched hamlets clustering round the little church.
On one side the great lake stretches, fed by many bright mountain rills,
On the other side are forests, pine and cedar, silvery birch.
I can see it all before me, as I left it in my boyhood;
Left my parents, left my village, to go soldiering in the world.
Fifty years have come and faded—still the cross stands where it stood,
Only I am changed and weary, strange that this was once my world.
And now I come back with honors, with my medals, with all my fame,
Just to look upon the village where my happy boyhood strayed,
Just to seek out in the little churchyard the few graves that bear my name,
And to say a humble prayer where my parents low are laid.
Yes, I left them in my boyhood, careless of their bitter anguish—
And the warnings of my mother entered not my heedless ears,
Till years after, I lay wounded far from home in bitter anguish,
Then I felt my parent’s sorrow, then I realized their fears.
