What time, dear Elton, we were wont to rove
From classic Brown along fair Seekonk’s vale,
And, in the murmurs of his storied cove,
Hear barbarous voices still our Founder hail;
E’en then my bosom with young rapture hove
To give to deathless verse the exile’s tale;
And every ripple’s moan or breeze’s sigh
Brought back whole centuries as it murmured by.
But soon the transient dream of youth was gone,
And different labors to our lots were given;