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BENEATH the beech, whose branches bare,
O’erhang the craggy road,
Lower'd the grim morn, in murky dies
And dimm’d the struggling day;
Yon rush-grown moor with sable waves,
I mark'd his desultory pace,
With many a mutter'd sound;
The reeking blade, the hand embru’d; He fell, and groaning grasp'd in agony the ground.
Full many a melancholy night
And sought the powers of sleep,
O'er his sad couch, and in the balm ::. . Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep.
Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
Amid th' autumnal wood:
Abrupt the social board to quit, And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling flood.
Beckoning the wretch to torments new,
A spectre pale, appear’d;
And brought the day's unwelcome close, More horrible and huge her giant-shape she rear'd.
“ Is this," mistaken Scorn will cry,
“ Could build the genuine rhyme ?
“ Had stor’d with all her ample views, “ Parent of fairest deeds, and purposes sublime.”
Ah! from the Muse that bosom mild
To strike the deathful blow :
With many a feeling too refin'd,
Though doom'd hard penury to prove,
To griefs congenial prone,
More wounds than nature gave he knew,
While misery's form his fancy drew
Then wish not o'er his earthy tomb.
To drop its deadly dew: ,
That rudely binds his turf forlorn, With spring's green-swelling buds to veģetate ancw.
What though no marble-piled bust
With speaking sculpture wrought?
To build a visionary shrine,
What though refus'd each chanted rite?
To touch the shadowy shell:
Of Laura, lost in early bloom, ' .
To sooth a lone, unhallow'd shade,
Within an ivied nook:.
Sudden the half-sunk orb of day More radiant shot its parting ray, And thus a cherub-voice my charm’d attention took,
“ Forbear, fond bard, thy partial praise ; Nor thus for guilt in specious lays
The wreath of glory twine: In vain with hues of gorgeous glow Gay Fancy gives her vest to flow, Unless Truth's matron-hand the floating folds con
“ Just heaven, man's fortitude to prove,
The tribes of hell-born Woe:
Life's fiercest ills, indulgent lends
“ Her aid divine had lull'd to rest
And stay'd the rising storm :
To gild his darken’d hemisphere,
“ Vain man! 'tis heaven's prerogative
Thy tributary breath :
In awful expectation plac'd,
Await thy doom, nor impious haste To pluck from God's right hand his instruments of
BOUND for holy Palestine,
“ Syrian virgins, wail and weep,