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Wandering over hill and dale,

Watching oft the kneeling saintHearing his groans float on the galeNo wonder thou art tir'd and pale.

Yet I have often seen thee bring

Thy beams o'er yon bare mountain's steep;
Then, with a smile, their lustre fling

Full on the dark and roaring deep;
When the pilgrim's heart did fail,
And when near lost the tossing sail.

Sure, that passing blush deceives;

For thou, fair nymph, art chaste and cold! Love our bosoms seldom leaves;

But thou art of a different mould. Hail, chaste queen! for ever hail ! And, prithee, look not quite so pale !

Yet stay—perhaps thou 'st travell’d far,

Exulting in thy conscious light; Till, as I fear, some youthful Star

Hath spread his charms before thy sight;

having printed them without her permission. For inserting compositions so much in the spirit of one of the most inte. resting periods of our early poetry, though the productions of the reign of George III, he cannot think any apology due to the reader.

And, when he found his arts prevail, He left thee, sickening, faint, and pale.

The Owl.

(From the same MS.]

While the Moon, with sudden gleam,

Through the clouds that cover her,
Darts her light upon the stream,
And the poplars gently stir,

Pleas'd I hear thy boding cry!
Owl, that lov’st the cloudy sky,
Sure, thy notes are harmony !

While the maiden, pale with care,

Wanders to the lonely shade,
Sighs her sorrows to the air,
While the flowerets round her fade,-

Shrinks to hear thy boding cry,
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky,
To her it is not harmony !

While the wretch, with mournful dole,

Wrings his hands in agony,

Praying for his brother's soul,
Whom he pierced suddenly,–

Shrinks to hear thy boding cry,
Owl, that lov’st the cloudy sky,
To him it is not harmony.

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