Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 19 1827.pdf/7



is upon thy lonely hearth, O silent House! once fill'd with mirth; Sorrow is in the breezy sound Of thy tall poplars whispering round.

The shadow of departed hours Hangs dim upon thine early flowers; Even in thy sunshine seems to brood Something more deep than solitude.

Fair art thou, fair to stranger's gaze, Mine own sweet Home of other days! My children's birth-place!—yet for me It is too much to look on thee!