Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green
with magic tints to harmonize the scene.
Stilled is the hum that through the malet broke,
when round the ruins of their ancient oak
the peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play,
and games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
with treasured tales and legendary lore;
All, all are fled! Nor mirth nor music flows
to chase the dreams of innocent repose.
All, all are fled, yet still I linger here
what secret charms this silent spot endear.
Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
whose hollow torret wooes the whistling breeze.
That casement arched with ivy's brownest shade
first to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd.
The mould'ring gateway strews the grass-grown court,
once the calm scene of many a simple sport.
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
and the heart promised what the fancy drew.