HOW solemn is the front of this Hotel,
When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,
And none can speak of scenery, nor tell
Of ‘tints of amber,’ or of ‘amethyst.’
Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell,
Here Sara flirted with whoever list,
Belinda loved not wisely but too well,
And Mr. Ford played the Philologist!
Haunted the house is, and the balcony
Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near,
And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,
While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere,
And all our hearts go forth into the cry,
Would that the teller of the tale were here!