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The red-breast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or midst the chace on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore ;

For thee the rear be daly shed:
Belov'd. till life could charm no more ;

And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.

END OF VOL. VII.

MUNROE & FRANCIS'

Third Edition.

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