“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105
Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.
“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree; 110
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
“The next, with dirges due in sad array,
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:—