Harper's Weekly

February 10, 1882

Coming Home at Last

by Will Carleton

[On the removal of the remains of John Howard Payne to this country.]

W.A. Rogers

I.
The banishment was overlong.
But it will soon be past;
The man who wrote Home's sweetest song
Is coming home at last!
For Years his poor abode was seen
In foreign lands alone,
And waves have thundered loud between
This singer and his own.
But he will soon be journeying
To friends across the sea;
And grander than of any king,
His welcome here shall be.

II.
He cannot come with cheerful brow,
And step of conscious pride;
He will not hear the tributes now
That fall on every side,
And when we tell how his rich
Sad strains our hearts have sought,
He cannot tell the price at which
The yearning words were bought!
And silently this man must come
unto the waiting throng—
Who gave a trumpet voice to Home
And thrilled the world with song!

III.
He wandered o'er the dreary earth,
Forgotten and alone;
He who could teach Home's matchless worth
Ne'er had one of his own.
'Neath winter's cloud and summer's sun,
Along the hilly road,
He bore his great heart, and had none
To help him with the load;
And wheresoever in his round
He went with weary tread,
His sweet, pathetic song he found
Had floated on ahead!

W.A. Rogers

IV.
He heard the melodies it made
Come pealing o'er and o'er,
From royal music bands that played
Before the palace door;
He heard its gentle tones of love
From many a cottage creep,
Where tender crooning mothers strove
To sing their babes to sleep;
And whereso'er true love had birth
This thrilling song had flown;
But he who taught Home's matchless worth
Had no home of his own.

V.
The banishment was overlong,
But it will soon be past;
The man who wrote Home's sweetest song
Shall have a home at last!
And he shall rest where laurels wave
And fragrant grasses twine;
His sweetly kept and honored grave
Shall be a sacred shrine.
And pilgrims with glad eyes grown dim
Will fondly bend above
The man who sung the triumph hymn
Of earth's divinest love.

Coming Home at Last, by Will Carleton Harper's Weekly, February 10, 1883, Page 93. (Digitized by Google) (PDF)