The tear of fond remembrance—slumber crept
Upon his eyes, for he was overspent,
Wasted for want of needful nourishment:
Before him in the moonlight rolled a stream,
Whose murmur lulled him to a blissful dream:
A dream of love, of happiness and pride,—
He thought he slew the wolf, and won his blushing bride.
Beyond the river, to its very edge
Along the bank, there grew a bushy hedge,
Where oft alone, beneath the twilight dim,