Fair inmate of these ivied walls, beneath Whose silent cloisters Ella sleeps in death, Let loftier bards, in rich and glowing lays, Thy gentleness, thy grace, thy virtue praise!...
Itchin! when I behold thy banks again, Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, On which the self-same tints still seem to rest, Why feels my heart a shivering sense of pain!...
I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy, a dream That leads with illusion the senses astray, And I sighed with delight as we stole down the stream, While the sun, as he smiled on our sail, seemed to say,...