The feather’d race around me sing,
They make the hills and vallies ring;
My sorrow flies, my grief is gone,
I warble with the tuneful throng;
All, all things wear a pleasing mien,
Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean.
At distance stands an ancient tower,
Which ruin threatens every hour;
I’m struck with reverence at the sight,
I pause and gaze with fond delight;