BRITISH "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

“One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne;

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."