1 From distant shores returning,
The pilgrim journeys home;
For rest His soul is yearning,
He would no longer roam.

2 A flowered grave encloses
What he had held so dear;
He sees the wilting roses,
And looks beyond for cheer.

3 Great cities often glory
In boundless wealth of gold,
But soon the doleful story
Of their decay is told.

4 The harps sweet tones are waning
Upon the silent air,
Nor day nor night retaining
That melody so fair.

5 The pilgrim who the pleasures
Of yonder world can taste,
Cares naught for earthly treasures,
That soon will go to waste.

6 He longs for things immortal,
For joys that ne'er decay,
And so to heaven's portal
He fondly wends his way.