Silent and sad the scene: I heard no more Mirth's honest cry, and childhood's cheerful roar, No longer echo'd round the shout of glee-- It seem'd as tho' the world were chang'd, like me! There, where my little hands were wont to rear With pride the earliest sallad of the year; Where never idle weed to grow was seen, There the rank nettle rear'd its head obscene. I too have felt the hand of fate severe-- In those calm days I never knew to fear; No future views alarm'd my gloomy breast, No anxious pangs my sickening soul possest; No grief consum'd me, for I did not know Increase of reason was increase of woe. Silent and sad awhile I paus'd, to gaze On the fall'n dwelling of my earlier days; Long dwelt the eye on each remember'd spot, Each long-left scene, long left, but not forgot: Once more my soul delighted to survey The brook that murmured on its wonted way; Obedient to the master's dread commands, Where every morn we wash'd our face and hands; Where, when the tempest raged along the air, I wont to rear the dam with eager care; And eft and aye return'd with joy to find The neighbouring orchard's fruit shook down by warring wind. How art thou chang'd! at first the stately pile, Where pride, and pomp, and pleasure, wont to smile, Lord of the manor, where the jovial squire Call'd all his tenants round the crackling fire; Where, whilst the glow of fame o'erspread his face, He told his ancient exploits in the chace; And, proud his rival sportsmen to surpass, He lit again the pipe, and fill'd again the glass. Past is thy day of glory: past the day When here the man of learning held his sway: No more, when howl the wintry storms around, Within thy hall is heard the mirthful sound; No more disport around the infant crew, And high in health the mimic game pursue; No more to strike the well-aim'd ball delight, Or rear aloft with joy the buoyant kite. True, thou art fallen: thy day of glory past, Long may thy day of honest comfort last! Long may the farmer from his toil retire To joys domestic round thy evening fire; Where boisterous riot once supreme has reign'd, Where discipline his sway severe maintain'd; May heaven the industrious farmer's labour bless, And crown his honest toil with happiness. Seat of my earlier, happier years, farewell! Thy memory still in Bion's breast shall dwell: Still as he journeys life's rough road along, Or sojourns sad, this college gloom among, Will fond remembrance paint those careless days, When all he wish'd was speedy holydays!