With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature; And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a ruin hoary! The shattered front of Newark's towers, Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, And age to wear away in : Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, Of tender thoughts that nestle there, How sweet, on this autumnal day, The sober hills thus deck their brows I see-but not by sight alone, A ray of fancy still survives, Her sunshine plays upon thee. With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature; And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a ruin hoary! The shattered front of Newark's towers, Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, And age to wear away in : Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, Of tender thoughts that nestle there, How sweet, on this autumnal day, The sober hills thus deck their brows I see-but not by sight alone, A ray of fancy still survives, Her sunshine plays upon thee. |