How often in that fair romantic land
Where he had been a soldier, he had turned
From the rich groves of Spain, to think upon
The oak and pine; turned from the spicy air,
To sicken for his own fresh mountain breeze;
And loved the night, for then familiar things,
The moon and stars, were visible, and looked
As they had always done, and shed sweet tears
To think that he might see them shine again
Over his own Gladesmuir! That silver moon,
In all her perfect beauty, is now rising;
The purple billows of the west have yet
A shadowy glory; all beside is calm,
And tender and serene—a quiet light,
Which suited well the melancholy joy
Of Ronald's heart. As every step the light
Played o'er some old remembrance; now the ray
Dimpled the crystal river; now the church
Had all its windows glittering from beneath
The curtaining ivy. Near and more near he drew—
His heart beat quick, for the next step will be
Upon his father's threshold! But he paused—
He heard a sweet and sacred sound—they joined
In the accustomed psalm, and then they said
The words of God, and, last of all, a prayer
More solemn and more touching. He could hear
Low sobs as it was uttered. They did pray
His safety, his return, his happiness;
And ere they ended he was in their arms!
The wind rose up, and o'er the calm blue sky
The tempest gathered, and the heavy rain
Beat on the casement; but they press'd them round
The blazing hearth, and sat while Ronald spoke
Of the fierce battle; and all answered him
With wonder, and with telling how they wept
During his absence, how they numbered o'er
The days for his return. Thrice hallowed shrine
