Its genial warmth we own no more;
Our fireside wears an alter'd look,—
A gloom it never knew before;
The converse sweet—the cherish'd lore—
That once could cheer our stormiest day,—
Those revels of the soul are o'er;
Those simple pleasures past away.
Then chide me not, I cannot sing
A song befitting love and thee;—
My heart and harp have lost the string