And the lawn before the door, I can see it as of yore, Bright with daisies spangled o’er. VI. And the hedge, along whose side, Oft, in childhood, I have tried To escape, when playing “Hide.” VII. And the miniature wood, Where in boyhood I have sued Coyish maiden, Solitude. VIII. And the garden full of flowers, Where I’ve past romantic hours, Dreaming of fair ladies’ bowers. IX. In the orchard, stretched at ease, On the grass, I hear the breeze Piping ’mong the apple trees. X. While from many a leafy nook, Grave as parson at his book, Rook replieth unto rook. XI. I can hear the river’s flow As it murmurs, soft and low, Bringing news from Pettigo. XII. I can watch it to the mill, Where the never-tiring wheel Dances round and drinks its fill. XIII. Past the ever-bubbling “spa,” Past the castle of Magra, Razed by Cromwell’s cruel law, XIV. On it goes with many a turn, Playing with its fringe of fern, Till it touches broad Lough Erne. XV. Here I leave thee, little stream, Lost, like much I dearest deem, In my life’s oft-shifting dream. XVI. Lost! but let me backward haste, I have little time to waste In my ramble through the past. XVII. Words are cumbersome, at times, Thought could visit fifty climes, While I’m seeking useless rhymes. XVIII. I am back upon the lawn, That I’ve often stood upon, But--is every body gone? XIX. Knock,--is any one within? Not a sound, except the din Of the mice,--they must be thin. XX. Look along the avenue, Is there any one in view? Surely, this cannòt be true? XXI. Put your ear upon the ground! Listen! Is there any sound? Every thing is hushed around. XXII. Oh! I dream! I might have known; _I_ have wandered,--_they_ are gone, And of _four_ remains but _one_. XXIII. Two were young and two were old; _Three_ are lying stark and cold In death’s rigid, icy fold. XXIV. Dear old Killynoogan, thee, Once so full of life and glee, Lifeless, desolate, I see! XXV. But, beloved and sacred spot, Nought of thee shall be forgot, Till what I am now--is not. “What can I do that others have not done? What can I think that others have not thought? What can I teach that others have not taught? What can I win that others have not won? What is there left for me beneath the sun? My labour seems so useless, all I try I weary of, before ’tis well begun; I scorn to grovel and I cannot fly.”