I stand where I have stood before: 
        The same roof is above me,
    But they who were are here no more,
        For me to love, or love me. 
    I listen, and I seem to hear
        A favorite voice to greet me;
    But yet I know that none are near,
        Save stranger forms, to meet me. 
    I’ll sit me down,—­for I have not
        Sat here since first I started
    To run life’s race,—­and on this spot
        Will muse of the departed. 
    Then I was young, and on my brow
        The rays of hope were shining;
    But Time hath there his imprint now,
        That tells of life’s declining. 
    How great the change!-though I can see
        Full many a thing I cherished-
    Yet, since beneath yon old oak tree
        I stood, how much hath perished. 
    Here is the same old oaken floor,
        And there the same rough ceiling
    Each telling of the scenes of yore,
        Each former joys revealing. 
    But, friends of youth-they all have fled;
        Some yet on earth do love us;
    While others, passed beyond the dead,
        Live guardian ones above us. 
    Yet, o’er us all one powerful hand
        Is raised to guard forever,
    And all, ere long, one happy band
        Be joined, no more to sever. 
    I’ve trimmed my sail on every sea
        Where crested waves are swelling;
    Yet oft my heart turned back to thee,
        My childhood’s humble dwelling. 
    I’ve not forgot my youthful days,
        The home that was my mother’s,
    When listening to the words of praise
        That were bestowed on others. 
    See, yonder, through the window-pane,
        The rock on which I rested;
    And on that green how oft I’ve lain-
        What memories there are vested! 
    The place where once a sister’s hand
        I held-none loved I fonder;
    But she’s now with an angel band,
        Whilst I a pilgrim wander. 
    There was a pretty, blue-eyed girl,
        A good old farmer’s daughter;
    We used the little stones to hurl,
        And watch them skip the water. 
    We’d range among the forest trees,
        To gather woodland flowers;
    And then each other’s fancy please
        In building floral bowers. 
    Within this room, how many a time
        I’ve listened to a story,
    And heard grandfather sing his rhyme
        ’Bout Continental glory! 
    And oft I’d shoulder his old staff,
        And march as proud as any,
    Till the old gentleman would laugh,
        And bless me with a penny. 
    Hark! ’t is a footstep that I hear;
        A stranger is approaching;
    I must away-were I found here
        I should be thought encroaching. 
    One last, last look-my old, old home! 
        One memory more of childhood! 
    I’ll not forget, where’er I roam,
        This homestead and the wild-wood.