And does the lonely glade Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid?
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?
While I forlorn do wander reckless where, And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.
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.
VIII.
A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, And innocent loves, and maiden purity: A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
IX.
TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE.
John, you were figuring in the gay career Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, When I was yet a little peevish boy-- Though time has made the difference disappear Betwixt our ages, which _then_ seem'd so great-- And still by rightful custom you retain Much of the old authoritative strain, And keep the elder brother up in state.
O! you do well in this.

'Tis man's worst deed To let the "things that have been" run to waste, And in the unmeaning present sink the past: In whose dim glass even now I faintly read Old buried forms, and faces long ago, Which you, and I, and one more, only know.
X.
O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, Scatters the ocean waves.

And I could weep Like to a child.