O, further than the legions bore The eagles of Imperial Rome— Three thousand miles, a weary march, You followed Hesper’s golden torch, Until it stooped on this green shore, And lit the rosy fires of home. It was a solemn morn you turned And quenched the sacred flames that burned On hearths endeared for years and years; It seemed your very souls grew dark With those sweet fires—the latest spark Was drowned in bitter, bitter tears. A softer, sweeter sunlight wrapt The forms of all familiar things, And as each cord of feeling snapt Another angel furled its wings: The lights and shadows in the lane, The oak beside the foot-worn stile Whose wheeling shades a weary while Had told the hours of joy and pain— The vine that clambered o’er the door And many a purple cluster bore— The vestal flowers of household love— The sloping roof that wore the stain Of summer sun and winter rain, And smoky chimney tops above— The beauty of the orchard trees, Bedecked with blossoms, glad with bees— The brook that all the livelong day Had many things to sing and say— All these upon your vision dwell And weave the sorrow of farewell. And now the last good-bye is said— Good-bye! the living and the dead In those sad words together speak, And all your chosen ways are bleak! Forward! The cracking lashes send A thrill of action down the train,— Their brawny necks the oxen bend With creaking yoke and clanking chain; The horsemen gallop down the line, And swerve around the lowing kine That straggle loosely on the plain— And lift glad hands to babes that laugh And dash the buttercups like chaff. Hurrah! the skies are jewel blue— In tasseled green and braided gold The robes of April are enrolled, And hopes are high and hearts are true! Hurrah! hurrah! the bold, the free— The sudden sweep of ecstacy That lifts the soul on wings of fire, When fears consume and doubts expire, And life, in one red torrent, leaps To join the march of boundless deeps! And now the sun is dropping down And lights and shadows, red and brown Are weaving sunset’s purple spell: The teams are freed, the fires are made, Like scarlet night flow’rs in the shade, And pleasant groups before, between, Are thronging in the fitful sheen— The day is done, and “all is well.”