"The Wanderer"
di Anne Hunter (fl. 1790)

To wander alone when the moon, faintly beaming
With glimmering lustre, darts thro' the dark shade,
Where owls seek for covert, and nightbirds complaining
Add sound to the horror that darkens the glade.
'Tis not for the happy; come, daughter of sorrow,
'Tis here thy sad thoughts are embalm'd in thy tears,
Where,l lost in the past, disregarding tomorrow,
There's nothing for hopes and nothing for fears.