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And now she glides away, and mingles slow With the deep shades—my awful fears depart,And now again I feel the life-blood glow, That almost stopp'd and curdled at my heart.Ill-fated, lovely Ann!—yes, I will keep Thy mournful story treasur'd in my breast;And oft will muse upon thy fate, and weep O'er the cold narrow bed where thou dost rest!
THE DAWN OF DAY.SEPTEMBER 30, 1813.
The dewy morn so soft and still,Peeps over Brassa's heath-clad hill:Nor may the slightest breath of breezeBreak the broad mirror of the seas,That shows the rudely pencil'd Baard,[1]And thy dark brow, majestic Ward,Rising from the azure wave,That scarcely dares thy feet to lave!But though so stilly and so deep,At thy green base the billows sleep,The Baas[2] of Boister's sullen roarEcho along the rocky shore.
