Written in a lonely spot on the hanks of the Torridge, often visited in youth.
Years, with their rolling weight of care,
Their records on my mind have press'd,
Since lonely last I wandered here
To watch the twilight in the west
I wandered here a reckless boy,
And gaily sang my song of joy.

Years, with a rapid flight, have flown.
Since on this pebbly bank I stood,
And saw the soft majestic moon
Look down into the silent flood.
Then artless hope, as false as kind,
Shed a bright moon-light through my mind.

Years, with a rapid flight, will fly.
And hope with care will still contend,
'Till death will gently close my eye.
And the dark scene in darkness end.
Then would I sweetly slumber here.
The sport no more of hope or care.