My loved companion dropped a tear, and fled,
        And hid in deepest shades her awful head. 
        Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art—­
        In what delicious Eden to be found—­
        That I may seek thee the wide world around?

CHILDHOOD

(Summer, 1796.  Text of 1818)

In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
Upon the days gone by; to act in thought
Past seasons o’er, and be again a child;
To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers,
Make posies in the sun, which the child’s hand,
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,)
Would throw away, and strait take up again,
Then fling them to the winds, and o’er the lawn
Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
That the press’d daisy scarce declined her head.

THE SABBATH BELLS

        (Summer, 1796.  Text of 1818)

        The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard,
        Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
        Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims
        Tidings of good to Zion:  chiefly when
        Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear
        Of the contemplant, solitary man,
        Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
        Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
        And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
        And baffles his pursuit—­thought-sick and tired
        Of controversy, where no end appears,
        No clue to his research, the lonely man
        Half wishes for society again. 
        Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute
        Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in
        The cheering music; his relenting soul
        Yearns after all the joys of social life,
        And softens with the love of human kind.

FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS

(Summer, 1796.  Text of 1818)

The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,
A lone enthusiast maid.  She loves to walk
In the bright visions of empyreal light,
By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,
Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
By chrystal streams, and by the living waters,
Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found
From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.

              THE TOMB OF DOUGLAS
        See the Tragedy of that Name

(1796)

When her son, her Douglas died,
To the steep rock’s fearful side
Fast the frantic Mother hied—­

O’er her blooming warrior dead
Many a tear did Scotland shed,
And shrieks of long and loud lament
From her Grampian hills she sent.