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PALE Roamer through the night! thou poor
Forlorn ! Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, Who in the credulous hour of tenderness Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn! The world is pitiless : the chaste one's pride Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress : Thy Loves and they that envied thee, deride : And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness ! O! I could weep to think, that there should be Cold-bosomed lewd ones, who endure to place Foul offerings on the shrine of misery, And force from famine the caress of Love; May He shed healing on thy sore disgrace, He, the great Comforter that rules above !
SWEET Mercy ! how my very heart has bled
man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy
breast. My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child : And thou shall talk, in our fire-side's recess, Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness. He did not so, the Galilean mild, Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's doors, And called them Friends, and healed their noisome
TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON.
Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night!
Thou bleedest, my poor Heart ! and thy distress
opprest, And nursed it with an agony
care, Even as a Mother her sweet. infant heir That wan and sickly droops upon her breast !
TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE ROBBERS.”
SCHILLER ! that hour I would have wished to die,