Go to thy rest, pale flower!—The star hath shed
His benison upon thy bosom fair,
The dews of Summer bathe thy pensive head,
And weary man forgets his daily care;—
Sleep on, my rose! till morning gild the sky,
And bright Aurora's kiss unseal thy trembling eye.
WYLLYS' HILL AND THE CHARTER OAK.
Occasioned by the death of the last proprietor, of the name of Wyllys, in whose family this estate had remained since the first settlement of the country.
Thou wert the castle of the olden time.
Thou solitary pile! the beacon light
Of the benighted traveller. Thy lone brow
Look'd out in grandeur o'er a pathless wild,
And waters whiten'd by no daring sail;
While to the red man's startled eye, thy pomp
Was as a dream of terror. Now thou stand'st
In faded majesty, as if to mourn
The desolation of a lordly race,
Or like a faithful vassal share their grave.
Farewell! Farewell! A loftier dome may rise,
And prouder columns blot thy time-stain'd walls
From the slight memory of a passing age.
Yet some there are, who deem thy mouldering stones
Dearer than sculpture's boast, to whose fond eye
Thy silent shades, and arbours darkly wreath'd,
And moon-lit walks, are peopled with the throngs
Of lost affection; for whom Memory's spell,
