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po e brad mut
Does she, with heart unchanged as mine,
Ye lofty banks that Evan bound,
Can all the wealth of India's coast
Nor more may aught my steps divide
to an end, 31
Till the mournful accents fly
TO STREPHON'S. ear, and all is well.
But gently breathe the fatal truth,
And soften every harsher sound,
Now, fountains, echoes, all be dumb;
And grieve I bought my rest so dear.
To speak, till spoken to, afraid. *
* This is a very ingenious allusion to the popular notion that ghosts are not permitted to speak till first addressed by the beholder.
My inward pangs, my secret grief,
I HAVE a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
This cherisht woe, this loved despair,
So, my soul's lord! the pangs I bear
And when pale characters of death
When my poor wasted trembling breath
My life's lost hope would speak,
I shall not raise my eyes to heaven,
THERE is one dark and sullen hour
Which fate decrees our lives should know, Else we should slight th' Almighty power,
Wrapt in the joys we find below:
'Tis past, dear CYNTHIA, now let frowns begone; A long, long penance I have done For crimes, alas! to me unknown.
In each soft hour of silent night
Your image in my dream appears;
Slumber in joys, but wake in tears:
* From the play of The Stranger, in the character of an unfaithful but penitent wife.
CAN loving father ever prove
For him my duteous prayers ascend;
To him my kindest wishes tend:
Sweet soothing task! I daily trace
Its rising flush delighted see,
And catch the sigh that breathes for me.
Can I thy long long cares review
'Tis mine to love a dearer name.