Forsaking, o’er the world to roam,
That little shrine of peace—our home!
E’en if delighted fancy throw
O’er that cold world, her brightest glow,
Painting its untried paths with flowers,
That will not live in earthly bowers,
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear
One breath of life’s ungenial air;)
E’en if such dreams of hope arise
As heaven alone can realise,