“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. “ One morn, I miss’d him on the 'custom’d hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came,—nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he; |