'Tis a town of ancient gables
Leaning into narrow streets,
Lintels with their chisel'd fables,
Rude devices, quaint conceits;
Gardens old, in warm light sunning,
And through all a river running.

I have stood upon its bridges,
While the river surged below;
And I've read its streets, like pages,
Fill'd with tales of long ago —
Mailed men on bloody foray,
And the martyr's pyre of glory.

But the sweetest thought I cherish,
Is the quiet of the town:
I can let the wild days perish,
And forget its old renown —
Not its sunny gardens sleeping,
And the dreamy river creeping;

Nor the spire divinely climbing,
The blue heavens like a pray'r,
With its deep-toned hammer, timing
Drowsy labour, wakeful care;
Nor the sparrow's rustic ditty,
Ringing through the quiet city.

But you ask me " What about it? "
And in sooth I cannot tell: —
You are vastly well without it;
Yet with me it is a spell:
And I feel rejoiced to give it
To the heart that can receive it.