IV.
Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined
Beneath the vast out-stretching branches
high
Of some old wood, in careless sort to
lie,
Nor of the busier scenes we left behind
Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed
maid!
Beloved! I were well content to play
With thy free tresses all a summer’s
day,
Losing the time beneath the greenwood
shade.
Or we might sit and tell some tender tale
Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,
A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;
And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail
In gentle sort, on those who practise
not
Or love or pity, though of woman born.
V.
When last I roved these winding wood-walks
green,
Green winding walks, and shady pathways
sweet,
Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene,
Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
Her image only in these pleasant ways
Meets me self-wandering, where in happier
days
I held free converse with the fair-hair’d
maid.
I pass’d the little cottage which
she loved,
The cottage which did once my all contain;
It spake of days which ne’er must
come again,
Spake to my heart, and much my heart was
moved.
“Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!”
said I,
And from the cottage turn’d me with
a sigh.
VI.
THE FAMILY NAME.
What reason first imposed thee, gentle
name,
Name that my father bore, and his sire’s
sire,
Without reproach? we trace our stream
no higher;
And I, a childless man, may end the same.
Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian
plains,
In manners guileless as his own sweet
flocks,
Received thee first amid the merry mocks
And arch allusions of his fellow swains.
Perchance from Salem’s holier fields
return’d,
With glory gotten on the heads abhorr’d
Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord
Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he
burn’d,
Whate’er the fount whence thy beginnings
came,
No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle
name.
VII.
If from my lips some angry accents fell,
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
’Twas but the error of a sickly
mind
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer
well,
And waters clear, of Reason; and for me
Let this my verse the poor atonement be—
My verse, which thou to praise wert ever
inclined
Too highly, and with a partial eye to
see
No blemish. Thou to me didst ever
show
Kindest affection; and would oft-times
lend
An ear to the desponding lovesick lay,
Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay
But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.