“ The First Home. “ About the casement of a room, In which a maid had slept From budding infancy to bloom, A honeysuckle crept. And every morning when the dew Lent odour to green lanes, The honeysuckle flowers looked through The maiden’s window-panes. How much of loveliness they saw When sammer morns were mild, It is not meet for man to know— I only know they smiled. They might have smiled at accents sweet, And sighs of tenderness, Such as the dreams of love may cheat A maiden to express. They might indeed have smiled to see The early sunbeams dance, As if they felt it joy to be On such a countenance. But when the maid her chamber left, Drest as became a bride, Of her sweet voice and looks bereft, The honeysuckle died. Upon the lonely window-sill The withering tendrils hung, And through the vacant room a chill Of desolation flung. The yellow bee that ever found Rich increase of his store ’Midst flowers that wreathed this casement round, Came buzzing there no more— Nor nestling butterfly, whose wing Wore all the hues of June, That to its leaves had loved to cling Beneath the sultry noon— Nor aught with form imparting grace, Or music with its voice, About this love-forsaken place Did e’er again rejoice— Because the beauty which had moved : Upon the chamber floor, Delighting everything that loved, Returned to it no more.”