Thomas Hardy

The Rover Come Home

He’s journeyed through America
From Canso Cape to Horn,
And from East Indian Comorin
To Behring’s Strait forlorn;
He’s felled trees in the backwoods,
In swamps has gasped for breath;
In Tropic heats, in Polar ice,
Has often prayed for death.

He has fought and bled in civil wars
Of no concern to him,
Has shot his fellows – beasts and men –
At risk of life and limb.
He has suffered fluxes, fevers,
Agues, and ills allied,
And now he’s home. You look at him
As he talks by your fireside.

And what is written in his glance
Stressed by such foreign wear,
After such alien circumstance
What does his face declare?
His mother’s; she who saw him not
After his starting year,
Who never left her native spot,
And lies in the churchyard near.