The Wanderer

I come down from the hills alone;
Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan!
I wander on in thoughtful care,
For ever asking, sighing--where?

The sunshine round seems dim and cold,
And flowers are pale, and life is old,
And words fall soulless on my ear--
Oh, I am still a stranger here!

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own!
Still sought for, long’d for, never known?
The land, the land of hope, of light,
Where glow my roses freshly bright,

And where my friends the green paths tread,
And where in beauty rise my dead;
The land that speaks my native speech,
The blessed land I may not reach!

I wander on in thoughtful care,
For ever asking, sighing--where?
And spirit-sounds come answering this--
“There, where thou art not, there is bliss!”