Within these wilds was Anna wont to rove
While Harland told his love in many a sigh,
But stern on Harland roll’d her brother’s eye,
They fought, they fell–her brother and her love!
To Death’s dark house did grief-worn Anna haste,
Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;
Oft pouring on the winds the broken lay–
And hark, I hear her–’twas the passing blast.
I love to sit upon her tomb’s dark grass,
Then Memory backward rolls Time’s shadowy tide;
The tales of other days before me glide:
With eager thought I seize them as they pass;
For fair, tho’ faint, the forms of Memory gleam,
Like Heaven’s bright beauteous bow reflected in the stream.
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog