Rydal

 ADIEU, Rydalian laurels! that have grown

And spread as if ye knew that days might come

When ye would shelter in a happy home,

On this fair mount, a poet of your own,

One who ne’er ventured for a Delphic crown

To sue the god; but, haunting your green shade

All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid

Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship self-sown.

Farewell! no minstrels now with harp new-strung

For summer wandering quiet their household bowers;

Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue

To cheer the itinerant on whom she pours

Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors

Or, musing, sits forsaken halls among.