And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!