And, as Hope hover'd o'er me,
I ask'd which way the nymph had fled,
For four roads met before me—
Whether she'd climb'd the height above,
Or bask'd with Wealth, or slept with Love?
I paus'd—for in the lonely path,
'Neath gloomy willows weeping,
Wrapt in his shroud of sullen wrath,
The Suicide was sleeping,
A scathed yew-tree's wither'd limb,