AN OLD INHABITANT OF CLIFFORD'S INN.
THE ROSE OF THE CASTLE.
A summer morn, with all its golden light,
Gilded the snowy bosom of the cloud,
And robed the verdant earth with sunny hues.
The bees sang music to their passion-flow'rs,
The birds, with melody which seem'd to gush
From joyful hearts, entranced the crystal air;
But, spectre-like, the ancient castle frown'd