Methinks â€™tis strange to see thee in the city,
Â Â Fluttering above the busy haunts of men
As if bewilderâ€™d with its ceaseless noise,
Â Â Seeking thy ruinâ€™d towâ€™rs and woods again;
Where shadowy oaks their giant arms are flinging,
Â Â Guarding some remnant of departed glory;
Where wall-flower, fern, and lichen-gray are singing,
Â Â Breeze-touched, to the pale moon, a dirge-like story.
Thou labourâ€™st in thy flight, as if thy spirit,
Â Â Sick with its wanderings, sought a resting spotâ€”
Ah! who may tell the feverish fears that stir it,
Â Â Panting, desponding, for its native grot.
Thou hast forsook the loaning, cool and quiet,
Â Â Soft whispering aspen, dewy beechen tree,
Old castle tower and myrtle haunt, for riot
Â Â That lifts its voice in loud, unhallowâ€™d glee.
Thus, voiceless wanderer, may thy untold woe
Â Â Teach me aright this lesson in my youthâ€”
If passion leads me virtue to forego,
Â Â Yearning again to seek the paths of truth.