When those we love are absent—far away,
When those we love have met some hapless fate,
How pours the heart its lone and plaintive lay,
As the wood-songster mourns her stolen mate!
Alas! the Summer-bower—how desolate!
The Winter hearth—how dim its fire appears!
While the pale memories of by-gone years
Around our thoughts like spectral shadows wait.
How changed the picture! here, they all are parted
To meet no more—the true, the gentle-hearted!
The old have journeyed to their bourne—the young
Wander, if living, distant lands among—
And now we rest our dearest hopes above;
For heavenly joy alone can match domestic love!