On Leaving Killarney. August 5, 1800. FAREWEL, sweet scenes! pensive once more I turn Those pointed hills, and wood-fringed lakes to view With fond regret; while in this last adieu A silent tear those brilliant hours shall mourn For ever past. So from the pleasant shore, Borne with the struggling bark against the wind, The trembling pennant fluttering looks behind With vain reluctance! 'Mid those woods no more For me the voice of pleasure shall resound, Nor soft flutes warbling o'er the placid lake AĆ«rial music shall for me awake, And wrap my charmed soul in peace profound! Though lost to me, here still may Taste delight To dwell, nor the rude axe the trembling Dryads fright!