I heard the leaping torrents, and the thrills
Of birds that hymn the sun; the charm that fills
Old Haddon’s vales, and haunts its river side—
What time the Fays pluck king-cups by its tide.
Methought ’twas hawthorn time—the jolly May—
For o’er far plains bright figures seemed to stray,
Gath’ring the buds, and calling me away!
I waked, but ah! to weep—no eye of thine,
Sweet mother! beam’d its gentle light on mine.