Original source: The Monthly Magazine, Volume 6, 1828 (not at present accessible);
Taken from The Museum of Foreign Literature and Science, 1828, Pages 674-675.
From the Monthly Magazine.
THE FORSAKEN HEARTH.
"And still the green is bright with flowers;
And dancing through the sunny hours,
Like blossoms from enchanted bowers
On a sudden wafted by,
Obedient to the changeful air,
And proudly feeling they are fair,
Glide bird and butterfly:
But where is the tiny hunter-rout,
That revelled on with dance and shout,
Against their airy prey?"–Wilson.
The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate—the fire is quenched and gone,
That into happy children's eyes once brightly laughing shone;
The place where mirth and music met is hush'd through day and night:
Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that here made light!
But scattered are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore,
Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no more;
Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's grief or mirth,
Unbound is that sweet wreath of home—alas! the lonely Hearth!
