Come thronging round once more,
The bounding limb, the gentle eye,
And the crooked form of yore.
At the still twilight’s dewy hour,
Their varied tones I hear,
As when I ranged these pastures o’er
In childhood’s sunny year.
On the evening air a lay is borne,
Soft wandering up the vale,
Where smoky wreaths o’er cottage brood,