To fill their pitchers at the Hawthorn Well,
Attended by their swains; and often here
Were heard the cheerful song and jocund laugh
Which told of heart-born gladness, and awoke
The slumbering echoes in the distant wood.
But now the place is changed. The pleasant path,
Which wound so gently up the mountain side
Is overgrown with bent and russet heath;
The thorn is withered to a moss-clad stump,
And the fox kennels where the turf-bank rose!