A wild and wasting thought had she—
“I shall have none to weep for me!”
They found her silent at the last,
Bent in the shape wherein she pass’d—
Where her lone seat long used to stand,
Her head upon her shrivell’d hand!
Did fancy give this legend birth?
The grandame’s tale for winter-hearth,
Or some dead bard, by Neot’s stream,
People these banks with such a dream?