Forgets its wonted simple note;
But yet the lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes on Aeolian wings,
In dying strains may float.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet [5] along whose rippling surge,
My youthful limbs were wont to urge