106
STANZAS.
LYDIA.
O'ER the high down the night-wind blew,
And as it chill and howling past,
The Juniper and scathed Yew
Shrunk from the bitter blast.
Yet on the sea-mark's chalky height,
The rude memorial of the Dane,
Thro' many a drear and stormy night
Had hapless Lydia lain.
When I a lonely wanderer too,
Who loved to climb and gaze around,
Even as the Autumnal Sun withdrew,
The poor forlorn one found.
