Adieu, ye mountains of the clime Where grew my youthful years; Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime His giant summit rears. Why did my childhood wander forth From you, ye regions of the North, With sons of Pride to roam? Why did I quit my Highland cave, Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, To seek a Sotheron home? 4 Hall of my Sires! a long farewell-- Yet why to thee adieu? Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view: The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy Hall, Forgets its wonted simple note-- But yet the Lyre retains the strings, And sometimes, on Æolian wings, In dying strains may float. 5. Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, [2] While yet I linger here, Adieu! you are not now forgot, To retrospection dear. Streamlet! [3] along whose rippling surge My youthful limbs were wont to urge, At noontide heat, their pliant course; Plunging with ardour from the shore, Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, Deprived of active force. 6. And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? Rocks rise and rivers roll between The spot which passion blest; Yet Mary, [4] all thy beauties seem Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, To me in smiles display'd; Till slow disease resigns his prey To Death, the parent of decay, Thine image cannot fade. 7. And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above Description's power of words! Still near my breast thy gift [5] I wear [ii] Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, Of Love the pure, the sacred gem: Our souls were equal, and our lot In that dear moment quite forgot; Let Pride alone condemn! 8. All, all is dark and cheerless now! No smile of Love's deceit Can warm my veins with wonted glow, Can bid Life's pulses beat: Not e'en the hope of future fame Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. Mine is a short inglorious race,-- To humble in the dust my face, And mingle with the dead. 9. Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; On him who gains thy praise, Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, Consumed in Glory's blaze; But me she beckons from the earth, My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, My life a short and vulgar dream: Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, My hopes recline within a shroud, My fate is Lethe's stream. 10. When I repose beneath the sod, Unheeded in the clay, Where once my playful footsteps trod, Where now my head must lay, [6] The meed of Pity will be shed In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, By nightly skies, and storms alone; No mortal eye will deign to steep With tears the dark sepulchral deep Which hides a name unknown. 11.