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But oh! too beautiful and blest
Thy home of youth hath been;
Where shall thy wing, poor bird! find rest,
Shut out from that sweet scene?
Kind voices from departed years
Must haunt thee many a day;
Looks, that will smite the source of tears,
Across thy soul must play.
Friends—now the alter'd or the dead—
And music that is gone,
A gladness o'er thy dreams will shed,
And thou shalt wake alone.
Alone!—it is in that deep word
That all thy sorrow lies;
How is the heart to courage stirr'd
By smiles from kindred eyes!
And are these lost? and have I said
To aught like thee—be strong?
So bid the willow lift its head,
And brave the tempest's wrong!
