Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring,
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers,
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring
Peace to my musing hours.
Sweet Fontenay! where first for me
The dayspring of existence rose,
Soon shall my dust return to thee,
And midst my sires repose.
Muses, that watched my childhood's morn,
Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye,
Fair trees, that here beheld me born,
Soon shall ye see me die.