Ichabod! the glory has departed

I BIDE through a dark, dark Land by night,
Where moon is none and no stars lend light,

And rueful winds are blowing;
Yet oft have I trodden this way ere now,
With summer zephyrs a-ftinning my brow,

And the gold of the sunshine glowing.

I roam by a gloomy Garden-wall;

The deathstricken leaves around me fall;

And the night-blast wails its dolours;
How oft with my love I have hitherward strayed
When the roses flowered, and all I surveyed

Was radiant with Hope's own colours!

But the gold of the sunshine is shed and gone,
And the once bright roses are dead and wan,

And my love in her low grave moulders,
And I ride through a dark, dark Land by night,
With never a star to bless me with light,

And the Mantle of Age on my shoulders.