Yes, the maid I remember, who travers'd the wild,
And sung her sad song near the old wither'd thorn;
From her look, she e'en seem'd sorrow's fav'rite child,
And a heart--rending burthen long time she had borne.
''Man, base deceiver! come not near me!
Ye artless maidens, do not fear me!
Heed not men's vows; avoid their wiles;
Oft sorrow lurks beneath love's smiles:
But hush! the salt tear burns my cheek--
Ah! wounded heart, when wilt thou break?''

Thus far she disclos'd, but by whoe'er undone,
Or her name, not a sage village matron cou'd trace;
Still the town and its throng she was careful to shun;
But the trav'ller, with pity, wou'd gaze on her face:
Each offer'd mite with scorn refusing;
Now mild her looks, now reason losing;
Now she'd laugh, now heave a sigh;
Now chide the birds that near her fly;
Now fancy wild flow'rs round her grow;
And many a wreath she'd twine of straw.

The loud storm of winter rag'd keen o'er the wild,
When the corse of the poor shrivell'd Maniac was found;
Ah! why not, ye wealthy, preserve sorrow's child?
Compassion might heal many a wand'rer's deep wound!
No rude stone marks her narrow dwelling;
Perhaps once thought each maid excelling;
She wish'd the stranger but to know,
Love was the source of all her woe:
How cautious still shou'd be the fair;
Love leads to bliss--love leads to care.