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Poem by Anne Hunter

The Song of the Wandering Lady


THROUGH dreary wilds forlorn I go
When loud the storms of winter blow;
On me they waste their rage in vain,
For I can feel nor joy nor pain.
My sheep, companions kind and true,
Yes, I can feel a pang for you;
Come gather round, and I will keep
The watch, and sing while you shall sleep.
Ah, these were once my lover's care,
Of all the flock he held them dear;
With me they left their native fold,
And brav'd the winds of winter cold.

They follow wheresoe'er I lead,
And while I sit and see them feed,
Methinks the sunny days return
Ere yet my heart had learnt to mourn.
To mourn a father's cruel pride,
By whose rash hand my lover died;
O cruel, cruel was the deed,
That caus'd so kind a heart to bleed.
O youth belov'd, thy voice no more
Can peace to my sad soul restore;
To seek thy native hills I fly,
Where thou wert born I go to die!

Anne Hunter

Anne Hunter's other poems:
  1. Song 6. IN airy dreams fond fancy flies
  2. Addressed to Mrs. G.
  3. Song 5. FAR, far from me my love is fled
  4. To the Memory of Thomas Chatterton
  5. Song 10. O Tuneful voice, I still deplore

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