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Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast,
I strive with wakeful melody to cheer
The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel, like thee.


Go, artless records of a life obscure,
Memorials dear of loves and friendships past,
Of blameless minds from strife and envy pure ;
Go, scatter'd by Affliction's bitter blast,
And tell the proud, the busy, and the gay,
How rural peace consumes the quiet day.

Oh ye, whom sad remembrance loves to trace,
Look down complacent from your seats above,
Regard with soft compassion's melting grace,
The simple offering of surviving love :
For, while I fondly think ye
Your whisper'd melody I seem to hear.


hover near,

Ye dear companions in life's thorny way,
Who see your modest virtues here display'd,
Forgive, for well you know the unstudied lay,
Was only meant to soothe the lonely shade.
But, when the rude thorn wounds the songster's breast,
The lengthen'd strains of woe betray her secret nest,

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