Methinks 'tis strange to see thee in the city,
Fluttering above the busy haunts of men
As if bewilder'd with its ceaseless noise,
Seeking thy ruin'd tow'rs and woods again;

Where shadowy oaks their giant arms are flinging,
Guarding some remnant of departed glory;
Where wall-flower, fern, and lichen-gray are singing,
Breeze-touched, to the pale moon, a dirge-like story.

Thou labour'st in thy flight, as if thy spirit,
Sick with its wanderings, sought a resting spot---
Ah! who may tell the feverish fears that stir it,
Panting, desponding, for its native grot.

Thou hast forsook the loaning, cool and quiet,
Soft whispering aspen, dewy beechen tree,
Old castle tower and myrtle haunt, for riot
That lifts its voice in loud, unhallow'd glee.

Thus, voiceless wanderer, may thy untold woe
Teach me aright this lesson in my youth---
If passion leads me virtue to forego,
Yearning again to seek the paths of truth.