Shepherd's Hut (continued)

Shepherd's HUT, continued.
THOSE rude old tales! — man's memory augurs ill,
Thus to forget the fragments of old days,
Those long old songs; — their sweetness haunts me still,
Nor did they perish for my lack of praise.
But old disciples of the pasture sward,
Rude chroniclers of ancient minstrelsy,
The shepherds, vanished all; and Disregard
Left their old music, like a vagrant bee,
For summer's breeze to murmur o'er, and die.
Still in these spots my Mind, and Ear, and Eye,
Turn listeners — till the very wind prolongs
The theme, as wishing, in its depths of joy,
To recollect the music of old songs,
And meet the hut that blessed me when a boy.