Where yonder mossy ruins lie,
And desolation strikes the eye,
A noble mansion, high and fair,
Once rear'd its turrets in the air.
There infant warriors drew their breath,
And learn'd to scorn the fear of death.
In halls where martial trophies hung,
They listen'd while the minstrels sung,
Of pain and glory, toil and care,
And all the horrid charms of war:
There caught the fond desire of fame,
And panted for a hero's name.
Alas! too oft in youthful bloom,
Renown has crown'd the early tomb,
Has pierc'd the widow's bosom deep,
And taught the mother's eyes to weep.
She, on whose tale the stripling hung,
While pride and sorrow rul'd her tongue.
His father's gallant acts to tell,
How bold he fought, how bravely fell.

Methinks e'en now I hear her speak,
I see the tear upon her cheek;
The musing boy's abstracted brow,
And the high-arching eye below.
The stifled sigh and anxious heave,
The kindling heart which dares not grieve;
The finely-elevated head,
The hand upon the bosom spread,
Proclaim him wrought by potent charms,
And speak his very soul in arms.

Incautious zeal! what hast thou done?
The tale has robb'd thee of thy son.
And while thy pious tears deplore,
The loss of him who lives no more,
Ambition wakes her restless fire,
The boy will emulate his sire,

The beauteous queen of social love,
Descending from the realms above,
Through the wide space of ether flew,
With care this little world to view,
Till, tir'd with wandering, at the last,
Through every different climate past,
She sought not out a splendid dome,
But made this humble cot her home.

The sweetest lyre would strive in vain,
To sing the pleasures of her reign,
Whose powerful influence does impart,
New softness to the feeling heart,
Bids it each narrow thought resign,
And fills it with a warmth benign.

From morning till the close of day,
Here all a grateful homage pay,
For here she plays her harmless wiles,
And scatters her endearing smiles;
Here no proud rivals intervene,
And all, though glowing, is serene.
Here, since she first her visit paid,
Still has the sweet enchantress staid,
And never met a single slight,
Or spread her snowy plumes for flight.

Contented 'neath the humble roof;
No timid heart is kept aloof;
A kind and condescending guest,
She lightens each despairing breast;
Where pain her poignant venom spreads,
The balm of tenderness she sheds,
Which breathes a calm repose around,
And heals at last the burning wound.

When the heart throbs with bitter woe,
Her winning mien disarms the foe,
And the kind glances of her eye,
Force the desponding power to fly.
She gives a zest to every joy,
Forbids tranquillity to cloy,
Softens misfortune, chases fear,
And balm distills in every tear.
'Tis she alone can make us know,
A truly blissful hour below,
Can smooth the furrow'd brow of life,
And hush the thundering voice of strife.

O, may she still exert her power,
Still lead us to the rural bower,
Which vaunting Pride does ne'er disgrace,
Or critic Envy's spiteful face.
Here Raymond ever shall delight,
To sit and watch the closing night;
And open-hearted Gertrude here,
With her sweet infant shall appear.
Here oft her brother shall prepare,
A wreath for Mary's curling hair;
While soft-voic'd Anna, fond of play,
And all the train, alert and gay,
In healthful games shall frolic round,
And revel on the mossy ground.

Here Edmund shall forget his care,
And often fill an elbow chair;
While Sophia, friendly and sincere,
Shall ever find a welcome here.

Yet would my hovering fancy trace,
The features of each happy face;
And sympathy informs my mind,
That they the same emotions find;
That in each scene of harmless glee,
Memory recalls the absent three:
And all, though distance strives to part,
Will hold communion in the heart.