Perchance for many a year;
While life's bright part shall slip away,
And Hope shall yield to Memory,
With many a tear.
But if imagination too,
Be not amongst things been,
Her magic power shall call to view,
The kind, the good, that brightened you,
Re-peopling the scene.
Adieu, sweet congress of fair things,
Stream, mountain, valley, plain;
And e'en when Time man's winter brings,
Remembrance still shall lend me wings,