HE FALL
Upon the left shore of the Tyrrhene sea,
Where, broken by the winds, the waves complain,
Sudden I saw that honour'd green again,
Written for whom so many a page must be:
Love, ever in my soul his flame who fed,
Drew me with memories of those tresses fair;
Whence, in a rivulet, which silent there
Through long gra** stole, I fell, as one struck dead.
Lone as I was, 'mid hills of oak and fir,
I felt ashamed; to heart of gentle mould
Blushes suffice: nor needs it other spur.
'Tis well at least, breaking bad customs old,
To change from eyes to feet: from these so wet
By those if milder April should be met.
Macgregor.