The household is divided now, and mute the evening pray'r!
Amid green walks and fringed slopes, still gleams the village pond.
And see, a hoar and sacred pile, the old church peers beyond;
And there we deem'd it bliss to gaze upon the Sabbath skies,—
Gold as our sister's clustering hair, and blue as her meek eyes.
Our home—when will these eyes, now dimm'd with frequent weeping, see
The infant's pure and rosy ark, the stripling's sanctuary?
When will these throbbing hearts grow calm around its lighted hearth?—
Quench'd is the fire within its walls, and hush'd the voice of mirth!
The haunts—they are forsaken now—where our companions play'd;