hearthless

There was a desolate village in a wood,

Whose bloom-inwoven leaves now scattering fed

The hungry storm; it was a place of blood,

A heap of hearthless walls;—the flames were dead

Within those dwellings now,—the life had fled

From all those corpses now,— […]

It was not a singer of the fireside, but a hearthless wanderer, who put in all hearts the Anglo-Saxon's simple "Home, Sweet Home."