Seek we thy once-loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead!
XXXVIII.
“Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed?