I have a cottage by the hill;
It stands upon a meadow green;
Behind it flows a murmuring rill;
Cool-rooted moss and flowers between.
Beside the cottage stands a tree,
That flings its shadow o’er the eaves;
And scarce the sunshine visits me,
Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.
A nightingale sings on a spray
Through the sweet summer time night-long,
And evening travelers on their way,
Linger to hear her plaintive song.
Thou maiden with the yellow hair,
The winds of life are sharp and chill;
Wilt thou not seek a shelter there,
In yon lone cottage by the hill?
My native land, on thy sweet shore
Lighter heaves the breast;
Could I visit thee once more,
How I should be blest!
Heart so anxious and so pained,
Fitting is thy woe;
My native land, what have I gained
By wandering from thee so?
Fresher green bedecks thy fields,
Fairer blue thy skies;
Sweeter shade thy forest yields,
Thy dews have brighter dies.
Thy Sabbath bells a sweeter note,
Echo far and near;
The nightingale’s melodious throat,
Sweeter thrills the ear.
Softer flow thy lavish streams
Through the meadow’s bloom;
Ah! How bright the wanderer’s dreams
‘Neath thy linden’s gloom!
Fair thy sun that flings around
Genial light and heat.
To my father’s household gate
Let me bend my feet;
There, forgetting all the past,
I will rest in peace at last!