_(For the Mirror.)_


Our hearth--we hear its music now--to us a bower and home;
When will its lustre in our souls with Spring's young freshness come?
Sweet faces beam'd around it then, and cherub lips did weave
Their clear Hosannas in the glow that ting'd the skies at eve!

Oh, lonely is our forest stream, and bare the woodland tree,
And whose sunny wreath of leaves the cuckoo carolled free;
The pilgrim passeth by our cot--no hand shall greet him there--
The household is divided now, and mute the evening pray'r!

Amid green walks and fringed slopes, still gleams the village pond.
And see, a hoar and sacred pile, the old church peers beyond;
And there we deem'd it bliss to gaze upon the Sabbath skies,--
Gold as our sister's clustering hair, and blue as her meek eyes.

Our home--when will these eyes, now dimm'd with frequent weeping, see
The infant's pure and rosy ark, the stripling's sanctuary?
When will these throbbing hearts grow calm around its lighted hearth?--
Quench'd is the fire within its walls, and hush'd the voice of mirth!

The haunts--they are forsaken now--where our companions play'd;
We see their silken ringlets glow amid the moonlight glade;
We hear their voices floating up like pæan songs divine;
Their path is o'er the violet-beds beneath the springing vine!

Restore, sweet spirit of our home! our native hearth restore--
Why are our bosoms desolate, our summer rambles o'er?