WRITTEN AT OATLANDS.
I SHALL come no more to the Cedar Hall,
The fairies' palace, beside the stream;
Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall
Through their tresses dark, with a mellow gleam.
I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn,
When the young moon hangs on the brow of night,
Nor see the morning, at early dawn,
Shake the fading stars from her robes of light.
I shall fly no more on my fiery steed,
O'er the springing sward,—through the twilight wood;
Nor rein my courser, and check my speed,
By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood.
At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more
'Neath the oak's broad shade, in the leafy dell:
The sun is set,—the day is o'er,—
The summer is past;—farewell!—farewell!
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