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“ Alas! what is become of them ?

These fears can never be endured, “ I'll to the wood.”—The word scarce said, Did Susan rise up from her bed, As if by magic cured.

Away she posts up hill and down,
And to the wood at length is come,
She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting ;
Oh me! it is a merry meeting,
As ever was in Christendom.

The Owls have hardly sung their last,
While our four Travellers homeward wend ;
The Owls have hooted all night long,
And with the Owls began my song,
And with the Owls must end.

For, while they all were travelling home, Cried Betty, “Tell us Johnny, do, “ Where all this long night you have been, have heard, what

you " And Johnny, mind you tell us true.”

What you

have seen,

Now Johnny all night long had heard
The Owls in tuneful concert strive ;
No doubt too he the Moon had seen ;
For in the moonlight he had been
From eight o'clock till five.

And thus to Betty's question, he,
Made answer, like a Traveller bold,
(His very words I give to you,)
“ The Cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,
" And the Sun did shine so cold.”
-Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
And that was all his travel's story.



All Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal Frame,
All are but Ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

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Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the Mount I lay

Beside the Ruin'd Tower,'

The Moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the Lights of Eve; And she was there, my Hope, my Joy,

My own dear Genevieve !

She lean'd against the Armed Man,
The Statue of the Armed Knight :
She stood and listen’d to my Harp

Amid the ling'ring Light.

Few Sorrows hath she of her own,
My Hope, my Joy, my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The Songs, that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful Air,
I sang an old and moving Story-
An old rude Song that fitted well

The Ruin wild and hoary.

She listend with a flitting Blush,
With downcast Eyes and modest Grace ;
For well she knew, I could not choose

But gaze upon her Face.

I told her of the Knight, that wore
Upon his Shield a burning Brand ;
And that for ten long Years he woo'd

The Lady of the Land.

I told her, how he pin'd : and, ah!
The low, the deep, the pleading tone,
With which I sang another's Love,

Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting Blush,
With downcast Eyes and modest Grace ;
And she forgave me, that I gaz'd

Too fondly on her Face !

But when I told the cruel scorn
Which craz'd this bold and lovely Knight,
And that he cross'd the mountain woods

Nor rested day nor night;

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