THE DIVIDED HOUSEHOLD.
(For the Mirror.)
Our hearth—we hear its music now—to us a bower and home;
When will its lustre in our souls with Spring's young freshness come?
Sweet faces beam'd around it then, and cherub lips did weave
Their clear Hosannas in the glow that ting'd the skies at eve!
Oh, lonely is our forest stream, and bare the woodland tree,
And whose sunny wreath of leaves the cuckoo carolled free;
The pilgrim passeth by our cot—no hand shall greet him there—