His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by
“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
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 missed him on the custom’d hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.