I must hasten home, said a rosy child,
Who had gayly roamed for hours;
I must hasten home to my mother dear—
She will seek me amid the bowers.
If she chides, I will seal her lips with a kiss,
And offer her all my flowers.
I must hasten home, said a beggar girl,
As she carried the pitiful store
Of crumbs and scraps of crusted bread,
She had gathered from door to door;
I must hasten home to my mother dear—
She is feeble, and old, and poor!
I must hasten home, said the ball-room belle,
As day began to dawn;
And the glittering jewels her dark hair decked,
Shone bright as the dews of morn;
I’ll forsake the joys of this changing world,
Which leave in the heart but a thorn.
I must hasten home, said a dying youth,
Who had vainly sought for fame—
Who had vowed to win a laurel wreath,
And immortalize his name;
But, a stranger, he died on a foreign shore—
All the hopes he had cherished were vain.
I am hastening home, said an aged man,
As he gazed on the grassy sod,
Where oft, ere age had silvered his hairs,
His feet had lightly trod;
Farewell! farewell to this lovely earth—
I am hastening home to God!