With falling tears I bathed the sacred ground,
And thro' the viewless darkness gazed around:
But air's blank waste deceived my ardent sight;
The hills were dark, the rivers roll'd in night.
Yet swift imagination, uncontroll'd,
Ranged o'er the scene, and tinged it all with gold.
'And here,' I cried, 'amid this piny grove,
In winter's morn my lonely steps shall rove;
And there, beneath yon' poplar's silver shade,
At summer noon my weary limbs be laid.
Yon azure stream, that parts the fruitful scene,
Shall see my cottage on its banks of green,
Long-cherish'd friends shall charm each livelong day,
And jocund children, more beloved than they:
My sun thro' ambient clouds shall set more fair,
And thirty years of grief be lost in air.
Oh, happy long-lost land! once more receive
Thy time-worn Exile, and his cares relieve!'

"The gathered mists roll'd slowly from the lawn,
And fading stars announced the silent dawn:
A hill, that tower'd above the bounded heath,
I climb'd, and gazed upon the scene beneath.
The beams of morning woke no living eye
Amid this vast and cheerless vacancy:
They only pour'd their ineffectual light
On a bleak prospect, better hid in night!
Where'er I look'd, outstretch'd in long survey,
A huge unmeasured waste of ruins lay.
War's fiery steps had mark'd the beauteous scene,