Sonnet Xix Poem by Robert Anderson

TO ELIZA.

The grief--worn wand'rer, forc'd afar to roam,
Beholds each object with an aching eye;
Cheerless and sad he heaves the rending sigh,
If Memory point but to his native home,
And pines for what he ne'er can hope to gain.
So have I lonely wander'd sweetest maid!
And seen gay Spring call forth each fav'rite flow'r,
Seen rip'ning Summer form the woodbine bow'r,
As, press'd with care, I sought the peaceful shade,
What time grey Eve stole o'er the dewy plain.
Then oft the blackbird, from the brambl'd glade,
His love--lorn song, like me, did plaintive pour:
But cheerful Spring, nor Summer's festive hour,
Could charm, if Fancy thy fair form pourtray'd.