Along the glade was Anna's wont to rove While Henry told his love in many a sigh. But dark on Henry roll'd her brother's eye, They fought, they fell -- her brother and her love! To her cold grave did woe-worn Anna haste, Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stray: Oft pouring on the winds a broken lay -- And hark, I hear her -- 'twas the passing blast. I love to sit upon her tomb's dank grass, There Memory backward rolls Time's shadowy tide; The forms of other days before me glide: With eager thought I seize them as they pass; For fair, tho' faint, the forms of Memory gleam, Like Heaven's bright bow reflected on the stream. |