The sky, and count each shining spire,
From those which sparkle at my feet
To distant steeples tipt with fire.
For still, old town, thou art the same:
The redbreasts sing their choral tune,
Within thy mantling elms aflame,
As in that other, dearer June,
When here my footsteps entered first,
And summer perfect beauty wore,
And all thy charms upon me burst,