A tale of true love, or of friend forgot; Was it some sweet device of fairy That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, In those fine eyes? Methought they spake the while When last I roved these winding wood-walks green, No more I hear her footsteps in the shade: It spake of days which ne'er must come again, Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I, And from the cottage turned me with a sigh. WILLIAM GIFFORD. 1756-1826. ["Baviad and Maviad." 1797.] THE GRAVE OF ANNA. I WISH I was where Anna lies, For I am sick of lingering here; Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! For when she died, A waste unlovely and unloved. But who, when I am turned to clay, And pluck the ragged moss away, And weeds that have no business there? And who with pious hand shall bring The flowers she cherished, snowdrops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallowed mould? And who, while memory loves to dwell I did it; and would fate allow Should visit still, should still deplore; But health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more. Take then, sweet maid, this simple strain, And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy air that every gazer took, Thy matchless eloquence of eye; Thy spirits frolicsome as good, Thy courage by no ills dismayed, Thy patience by no wrongs subdued, Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye; Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh, A long, a last, a sad adieu! |