Not a leaf on the tree,—not a bud in the hollow,
Where late swung the blue-bell, and blossomed the rose;
And hushed is the cry of the swift-darting swallow,
That circled the lake in the twilight's dim close.
Gone, gone are the woodbine and sweet-scented brier,
That bloomed o'er the hillock and gladdened the vale,
And the vine, that uplifted its green-pointed spire,
Hangs drooping and sear on the frost-covered pale.
And hark to the gush of the deep-welling fountain,
That prattled and shone in the light of the moon;
Soon, soon shall its rushing be still on the mountain,
And locked up in silence its frolicsome tune.
Then heap up the hearth-stone with dry forest-branches,
And gather about me, my children, in glee;
For cold on the upland the stormy wind launches,
And dear is the home of my loved ones to me.