A picture is haunting my memory to-night,
While I dose in the warmth of an early fire-light.
As we strive to remove from the soul an old strain,
Thus the outline I’ve tried to erase from my brain;
But a specter stands near with sepulchral face.
And over my hearthstone the same scene doth trace—
She colors the landscape and scoffs at my tears,
As I gaze on the wreck of scarce twenty-one years.
’Twas the home of my boyhood. In ruins it stood,