Behold a dusky spot, a grove of Firs, 385
That seems still smaller than it is. This grove
Is haunted—by what ghost? a gentle spirit
Of memory faithful to the call of love;
For, as reports the dame, whose fire sends up
Yon curling smoke from the grey cot below, 390
The trees (her first-born child being then a babe)
Were planted by her husband and herself,
That ranging o’er the high and houseless ground
Their sheep might neither want (from perilous storms