All soft may blow the mountain air,
—It will not wave thy graceful hair!
The mountain rose may bloom and die,
—It will not meet thy smiling eye!
But like those scenes of vanish’d days,
Shall others ne’er delight;
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze,
Yet seem not half so bright!
O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hue
Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high;