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 Which fix my lingering steps, and still A sadly-pleasing joy instil. 'Twas here, alas! a weary round, Through rugged, rough, and thorny ground, My way-worn, pilgrim feet have trod, Since last they prest this mossy sod! 'Twas here—a playful, prattling child, When life, and nature round me smiled, With loved companions—now no more!— The frolic group one mother bore— From morn to eve, in rival toil, With fragrant flowers we deckt the soil, Or pigmy castles raised around, Till all appeared like fairy ground. And sure, we simply thought the while, The old majestic Gothic pile, Compared with ours was babies' play, The work and labour of a day. The good old nurse prolonged the cheat, And dear mamma, with kisses sweet, And fond, impartial smiles, surveyed The efforts of each tiny spade. Where hope allured, or fancy led. Eager in keen pursuit we fled, And was the promised pleasure crost, Straight in new joys the grief was lost. So flew the laughing hours away; So rose, and set, each blissful day. Though vanished—as they ne'er had been— The actors both, and flowery scene, To sad remembrance ever dear, They claim a sigh, a tender tear.

Hush, hark!—from yon sepulchral stone, Methought I heard a hollow groan!