While Slowly Wanders Thy Sequestered Stream, Wainsbeck, The Mossy-Scattered Rocks Among, In Fancy'S Ear Making A Plaintive Song To The Dark Woods Above, That Waving Seem To Bend O'Er Some Enchanted Spot, Removed From Life'S Vain Coil; I Listen To The Wind, And Think I Hear Meek Sorrow'S Plaint, Reclined O'Er The Forsaken Tomb Of Him She Loved! Fair Scenes, Ye Lend A Pleasure, Long Unknown, To Him Who Passes Weary On His Way; Yet Recreated Here He May Delay A While To Thank You; And When Years Have Flown, And Haunts That Charmed His Youth He Would Renew, In The World'S Crowd He Will Remember You.