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.

? 1790.