I have one now; but she of whom I sing—
Our Jane—was in an early grave laid low,
A victim to the stern relentless king,
Whose arrows sharp are ever on the wing—
Who “loves a lofty mark.” O, when she died,
I lost a friend indeed; my heart did cling
To her sweet love, and in that love confide;
For though more young than I, she was my frequent guide.
VI.
How often have we roved together, where