The Traveller

The stream glides by, the flower fades, and neither feels a sting
That thus they pass and bear away the glory of the spring.
I dream myself once more at home, a thousand miles away;
The night-jar wakes me with its cry ere yet 'tis early day.
Long months have passed and no word comes to tell me of my own;
With each New Year my scattered locks have white and whiter grown,
Ah my -dear home, if once within thy threshold I could be.
The Five Lakes and their lovely scenes might all go hang for me.