How pleasant, Fairfield, on the enraptured sight
Rose thy tall spires and oped thy social halls!
How oft my bosom beat with pure delight
At yonder spot where stand thy darken'd walls!
But there the voice of mirth resounds no more.
A silent sadness through the streets prevails;
The distant main alone is heard to roar,
The hollow chimneys hum with sudden gales—
Save where scorch'd elms the untimely foliage shed,
Which, rustling, hovers round the faded green—