Arthur Clifford

“ Wrapt in lost scenes of past delight,
Or fancied visions of the night,
Gazing, has stood, with tearful eye,
While love has breathed his softest sigh.
Hard by this dismal, dreary room,
Where darkness spreads a death-like gloom ”

“ Scarce whispers through these aged trees;
So smooth yon limpid lake—it shows
Each star that in the blue vault glows:
A sacred calm pervades the whole,
A soft enchantment rules my soul.
What magic spell enchains my feet? ”

“ Molested in his dark retreat;
Perhaps, the echoes of my feet.
⁠How vain are all the schemes of man!
How frail his wisest, best-laid plan!
Not man alone—his works decay,
His towers, and temples—pass away. ”