Of early graves of friends who, one by one,
Leave us at last to journey on alone.
Turn to the home of childhood—hallowed spot,
Through life’s vicissitudes still unforgot;
The sacred hearth deserted now is found,
Or unloved stranger-forms are circling round.
In the dear hall, whose sounds were all our own,
Are other voices, other accents known;
And where our early friends? A starting tear
And the rude headstone promptly answer, “Here.”