VIII. The Ancient Village.
And the daughter of Zion is left as a cottage in a vineyard.
Let me still love thee in thy quietude,
Sweet sylvan village! and thou, aged rook,
Who sitt'st sole sentinel in ivied nook,
Survivor of thy noisy brotherhood!
And I with thee, in thine own pensive mood,
Could linger, till the lights of ages fall
Around us, like moonbeams on tap'stried hall,
And saintly forms come forth, and virgins good,
Who gave their days to Heav'n. From that lone pile
Avaunt, rude change, thy disenchanting wand,
And let the holy Cross linger awhile!
Ah, feather'd Chronicler, would that from thee
Thou could'st forefend Art's all-transforming hand,
And guard thy hoary haunts of sweet Antiquity.
