Received our weary little frames at last.
Let not the wise deride our infant fear.
Where is the heart that has not beat sometime
At some dark, superstitious thought of ill
Impending; or the cheek that has not blanched
At some dread mystery yet unexplained?
Where are those gay and loved companions now?
Do they yet cluster round the same bright hearth
That blessed their childhood? Do they linger still
Among those lovely scenes of early youth