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And see'st thou, Richard, these rude rills,

Whose gurgling waters meet, To thee, their whisp'ring waves are clear,

Their banks wild odours sweet.

Yet since thy father rush'd to war,

And bound with steel his arm, Not me or night, or day can please,

Or art, or nature charm.

For me, shews dim yon star, whose rays

Gleam thro’ the woods beneath, For me, these rills no music wake,

Their banks no odours breathe.

For I have lost the noble youth,

With whom no youth could vie, Fierce in the combat, yet in peace,

The Virgin's secret sigh.

But who, in yonder shadowy glen,

With toil and travel broke,
Rests, with his weary head reclin'd,

Beneath

yon aged oak?

See, Richard, carelessly diffus'd,

Where lies the Pilgrim meek,

The wind uplifts his raven hair,

The sun-beam gilds his cheek.

Perhaps, my son, ah, sick at heart,

From ease, from safety far,
Yon hapless Pilgrim sadd’ning mourns

The cruel chance of war.

Then hie thee, Richard, thither hie,

To pour the oil and wine, And,“ bail, thou gentle Pilgrim," say,

May God's good grace be thine.

“ I come from yonder neighb’ring heights,

“ Where bides a Lady fair, “ And many a welcome waits thy wish,

“ And many a blessing there.

“For thine, O Pilgrim, thine the couch

" To rest thy wearied frame, « Thine is the bath, the banquet thine,

“ For thine mild pity's claim.”

Ran Richard swift as from the bow

The arrow quits the line“ All bail, thou gentle Pilgrim, hail !

May, God's good grace be thine.

“ I come from yonder neighb'ring heights,

“ Where bides a Lady fair, And many a welcome wait's thy wish,

“And many a blessing there.

“ For thine, O Pilgrim, thine the couch

“ To rest thy wearied frame, « Thine is the bath, the banquet thine,

“ For thine mild pity's claim.”

Now heav'n thee guard, thou lovely boy!

Now heav'n thee guard and save, For ne'er, I trust, to any fair youth,

More sweetness Nature gave.

But tell me, say, what Lady fair,

What gentle form it be,
Whose tender breast, with pitying care,

Hath lent its aid to me.

For know, good youth, near this rude dell,

With fame with honour blest, Ah! many a cheerful day I've seen,

And welcom'd many a guest.

My heart is full-ah! know I not,
Long years of absence fled,

But what my wife, my only child,

And all my friends are dead !

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“O think not so, thou Pilgrim sad,

I pray thee, think not so, " For the sweetest balm mild Mercy pours,

“ O thine that balm to know !

My mother waits thy weary step;

O give to winds thy care! “ No toil-worn trav'ller's wander here,

“ But Edith's blessings share.”

The Pilgrim sigh'd, the Pilgrim wept,

And fault'ring strove to speak --“My son, my son”--then clasp'd the youth,

And bath'd his glowing cheek.

Come to my heart, my own sweet boy,

All, all my suff"rings gone-
Then Richard knelt, and dropt the tear-

My father, bless thy son.”

Bless thee, my boy--and now I haste

My heart's soft bome to greet;
I come, my youth's dear bride, I come,

Thy looks of love to meet.

Now pass'd they thro' the gloomy glen,

Now climb d. the hills steep side, And now they reach'd the forest shade

Where Edith sat and sigh’d.

A shriek was heard the woods among,

'Twas Edith's as she flew With rapture wild to clasp the form

Which truth or fancy drew.

“ My Arthur!-Oh my gentle Lord!

“Ah! can such bliss be mine!
Speak—shall we never part again,
O speak, and say I'm thine !”

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My Love, my Love! tho' dear the day

“ That blest our young desires, “ Yet dearer far, the hopes, the joys,

“ The present hour inspires.

“ Oh! thou art all to my poor heart,

“ All, all that heav'n can give, “ All, all that breathes the soul of life,

" And makes it bliss to live.”

« And is my Arthur still so kind,

“ Yet can he love so well!

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