74
THE FOREST BOY.
By the brook where it winds thro' the wood of Arbeal,
Or amid the deep forest, to moan,
The poor wandering Phoebe will silently steal;
The pain of her bosom no reason can heal,
And she loves to indulge it alone.
Her senses are injured; her eyes dim with tears;
By the river she ponders; and weaves
Reed garlands, against her dear William appears,
Then breathlessly listens, and fancies she hears
His light step in the half-wither'd leaves.
