That mourns thy wrongs, yet mourns in vain:
I come, but not with former haste,
To view the dim unshelter’d Waste,
That once was Needwood: on thy brow
No green-rob’d Wood-nymph beckons now:
Yet be thy Spirit sooth’d to bear
My Requiem through the void of air!
O Draycot Cliff! again thy height,
Known beacon of my young delight,
With sad’ning thoughts, that much portend