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Leans ver its humble

e gate, & thinks the while_

Oh! that for me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form,

Health in the breeze, & shelter in the storm.

Published as the Act directs by Longman & Rees, London, 1 July. 1800.

Hark! the wild maniac fings to chide the gale

That wafts fo flow her lover's distant fail;

She, fad fpectatrefs, on the wint'ry fhore

Watch'd the rude furge his shroudlefs corfe that bore,

Knew the pale form, and, fhrieking in amaze,

281

Clafp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze : Poor widow'd wretch! 'twas there fhe wept in vain

Till memory fled her agonizing brain ;—

But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe,

285

Ideal peace, that Truth could ne'er beftow:-
Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam,
And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream.

Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky, And the lone fea-bird wakes its wildeft cry,

290

Pil'd on the steep her blazing faggots burn

To hail the bark that never can return;

And ftill fhe waits, but fcarce forbears to weep
That conftant love can linger on the deep.

And, mark the wretch, whofe wand'rings never knew The world's regard, that foothes, though half untrue, 296

Whofe erring heart the lash of forrow bore,

But found not pity when it err'd no more.

Yon friendlefs man, at whose dejected eye

Th' unfeeling proud one looks-and paffes by;

300

Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam,

Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home-
Ev'n he, at evening, fhould he chance to stray

Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-fcented way,

Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen
The bloffom'd bean-field, and the floping green,
Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while—
Oh! that for me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet fhade, to yield my fickly form

305

Health in the breeze, and fhelter in the ftorm;

310

There fhould my hand no ftinted boon affign

To wretched hearts with forrows fuch as mine

That generous wish can foothe unpitied care,
And Hope half mingles with the poor man's prayer.

Hope! when I mourn, with fympathifing mind, 315

The wrongs

of fate, the woes of human kind,

Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see

The boundless fields of rapture yet to be;

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