Here no longer shall I wander Lone, but in communion high, Kindred spirits greet me — yonder Glows the form that's ever nigh.
Wrapt in blissful contemplation, From that hill no more I gaze On scenes as fair as when creation Rose — the theme of Seraph's lays.
And thou, fair sylph, that round its basis Driv'st thy car, with milk-white steed; Oft I watch'd its gentle paces— Mark'd its track with curious heed.
Why? oh! why thus interesting, Are forms and scenes to me unknown? Oh you, the Muses' power confessing, Define the charm your bosoms own.
Why love to gaze on playful fountain, Or lake, that bore him on its breast? Lonely to wander o'er each mountain, Grove, or plain his feet have press'd?
It is because the Muses hover, And all around a halo shed; And still must every fond adorer Worship the shrine, the idol fled.
But 'tis past; and now for ever Fancy's vision's bliss is o'er; But to forget thee, Newstead — never, Though I shall haunt thy shades no more.
