A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;
And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail
In gentle sort on those who practise not
Or love or pity, though of woman born.

Was it some sweet device of fairy

That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade,
And fancied wanderings with a fair-haired maid?
Have these things been? Or what rare witchery,
Impregning with delights the charméd air,
Enlighted up the semblance of a smile

In those fine eyes? Methought they spake the while
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade
Still court the footsteps of the fair-haired maid?
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?
While I, forlorn, do wander reckless where,
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.

When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,
Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,
Ofttimes would Anna seek the silent scene,
Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.

No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
Her image only in these pleasant ways
Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days
I held free converse with the fair-haired maid.

I passed the little cottage which she loved,
The cottage which did once my all contain;

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 Mæviad." 1797.]

THE GRAVE OF ANNA.

I WISH I was where Anna lies,
For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour affection cries,

Go and partake her humble bier.

I wish I could! For when she died,
I lost my all; and life has proved
Since that sad hour a dreary void;
A waste unlovely and unloved.

But who, when I am turned to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,

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
Upon her name forever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

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,
The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undecked remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.

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,
Thy gay good-humour, can they fade?

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!