SOLITUDE. IT is not that my lot is low, It is not grief that bids me moan, In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tir'd hedger hies him home; Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast. Yet when the silent evening sighs, The autumn leaf is sear and dead, The woods and winds, with sullen wail, I've none to smile when I am free, Yet in my dreams a form I view, IF far from me the Fates remove O teach me, when the nights are chill, FANNY! upon thy breast I may not lie! Indeed my lonely couch?-Methought the breath My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, When the long Sabbath of the tomb is past, We two shall meet in Christ to part no more. |