The swallows, at the close of day, When autumn shone with fainter ray, Around the chimney circling flew, Ere yet they bade a long adieu, To climes where soon the winter drear...
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!...
Oh thou, that prattling on thy pebbled way Through my paternal vale dost stray, Working thy shallow passage to the sea! Oh, stream, thou speedest on The same as many seasons gone; But not, alas, to me...
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,...