Hail ! peace to your mansions, where Ruin has ravag'd —
Your low strawy roof now fallen to decay;
Your thresholds untrod, there the green grass is waving:
Your walls, they are moulder'd, and naked, and gray: —
Thus Time doth dissect, with calm deliberation; —
Enfeebl'd's thy form by each blast that doth blow;
And savage, and sage, the proud prince and the peasant,
And heroes, and empires, like thee, are laid low.
Here sat the fond housewife and parent united,
While Virtue's plain precepts oft flow'd from her tongue;
Now silence reigns round, save the Dee's lonely murmurs,
Or the wail of the night-bird bereft of her young:
The hawthorn blooms gray, and the trees spread their branches;
The primrose has blossom'd — yet nought can avail,
No rustic returns with his song in the evening —
No fond lovers meet now to breathe the soft tale.

Where are the youngsters with gambol and frolic?
In life's early morn, light they trod the flower'd green;
Each sod, seat, and path, the rude plough has defaced,
And nettles and wild weeds luxuriant are seen:
Perhaps, like their cottage, unpitied, unenvied,
They silently sleep the cold green sod below;
Or fetter'd by gain, strive to win the gold anchor,
On fortune's rude tide, thro' a world full of woe.

No more shall the stranger, when wearied and worn,
Find shelter to shield him with comfort or rest;
In thy mansions, though low, have the naked been clothed,
And sooth'd the sunk heart of the lonely distrest.
Here science might shine like the flower in the desert,
And mild meditation her vigils prolong;
Still, such are the scenes where the muse loves to wander,
And weave her lone thoughts in the heart-soothing song.