In many a home by them left desolate;
Once warm with love, and radiant with the smiles
Of woman, watching infants at their wiles,
Whose eye of thought, while now they throng her knees,
Pictures far other scene than that she sees,
For one is wanting—one, for whose dear sake,
Her heart with very tenderness would ache,
As now with anguish—doubled when she spies
In this his lineaments, in that his eyes,
In each his image with her own commix'd,