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!