The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 19, Pages 238-239
THE DESERTED HOUSE.
Gloom 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!
