From looking back to years when Summer wind
Sang, not o'er mills, but round ancestral halls,
And, 'stead of engine's steam, gave dews from waterfalls.
'He who by brick-built houses closely pent,
That show nought beautiful to sight or scent,
Pines for green fields, will cherish in his room
Some pining plant bereft of natural bloom;
And, like the crowds which yonder factories hold,
Withering 'mid warmth, and in their spring-tide old,
So Lancashire may fondly look upon