So hot shine the sunbeams the Nile waters o'er,
And palm-trees there give not a shadow more;
Then longing for fatherland urges us forward,
Our troops then forgather: To nor'ward, to nor'ward.

And deep underfoot then we see like a grave
The green-growing earth and the blue-coloured wave,
Where fresh stir and tempest to each day is given,
While we fare so free 'mid the cloudlets of heaven.

Far off amid mountains, a meadow is there,
Where lighteth our flock, where our bed we prepare.
Our eggs in the chilly pole's regions we lay there,
And hatch out our brood in the midnight sun's ray there.

On our peaceful valley no fowlet can chance.
The gold-wingéd elf-people hold there their dance;
The green-mantled wood-nymphs at even are lurking.
And dwarfs in the mountains the red gold are working.

His stand on the mountains Vindevale's son takes;
His snow-covered wings with an uproar he shakes.
Hares whiten; the quicken with berries is smothered;
Our troops then forgather: To southward, to southward.

To green-growing fields, to a temperate main,
To shade-giving palm-trees our mind turns again.
There rest we ourselves from our airy flight forward;
There long we again for our world to the nor'ward.

Ye fugitive guests on the far foreign strand.
When seek ye again your own dear native land?
⁠When flowers coyly peep out,
⁠⁠In native dales growing,
⁠And rivulets leap out
⁠⁠Past alders a-blowing.
⁠On lifted wings hither
⁠⁠The tiny ones hie;
⁠None tells the way whither
⁠⁠Through wildering sky,
⁠⁠Yet surely they fly.

They find it so safely, the long sighed-for north.
Where spring both their food and their shelter holds forth.
⁠The fountain's breast swelleth,
⁠⁠Refreshing the weary;
⁠The waving branch telleth
⁠⁠Of pleasures so cheery;
⁠And where the heart dreameth
⁠⁠'Neath midnight sun's ray.
⁠And love scarcely deemeth,
⁠⁠'Mid song and 'mid play.
⁠⁠How long was the way.

The fortunate blithe ones, they build amid rest,
'Mong moss-covered pine-trees, their peaceable nest.
⁠And tempest and fray, too,
⁠⁠And care and its powers,
⁠They find not the way to
⁠⁠The warderless towers.
⁠There joy needs no charming,
⁠⁠But May-day's bright brand,
⁠And night to sleep calming
⁠⁠With rose-tinted hand
⁠⁠The tiny wee band.

Thou fugitive soul on a far foreign strand,
When seek'st thou again thine own dear fatherland?
⁠When each palm-tree beareth,
⁠⁠In fatherworld growing,
⁠Thy calm faith prepareth
⁠⁠In joy to be going.
⁠On lifted wings thither.
⁠⁠As little birds hie.
⁠None shows the way whither
⁠⁠Through wildering sky,
⁠⁠Yet sure dost thou fly.

Art's "tender strokes" in thee I seek in vain.
The polished corner, and the gaudy pane;
The walls are whitewashed, and the altar bare.
Yet how I love thee, little house of prayer!
Type truer of the One who stooped so low,
Than the grand minster with its stately show;
In whose high soaring pinnacles I trace
Little which tells us of the lowest place.
But, lowly house of God, I read in thee
The winning smile of true humility —
And I am touched — I long to lift the latch,
And bow my knees beneath thy roof of thatch.
The proud may sneer, but God does not disdain
The want of splendour in this meagre fane.
Nor does He wish to sweep thy stones away —
True witnesses for Jesus Christ are they:
Despised, unseen, such lowly churches preach
A lowly Christ within a sinner's reach.