Moves o’er the woof her crayon slow.
Here, cold, bewilder’d, tir’d, forlorn,
The Traveller sighs in vain for morn;
Stretch’d on the imprinted snow he lies,
And bends on heaven his stiffening eyes.
There Friendship sits the shade beneath,
And twines for Clarke a fadeless wreath;
Fresh cypress with the flowers she weaves,
And many a tear-drop gems the leaves.
Next o’er the lawn a virgin throng