"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. |
"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. |