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...
O Tweed! a stranger, that with wandering feet O'er hill and dale has journeyed many a mile, (If so his weary thoughts he might beguile), Delighted turns thy stranger-stream to greet....
Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me! Enough of care and heaviness The weary lids of life depress, And doubly blest that gentle heart shall be, That wooes of poesy the visions bland,...
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!...