Ode To Pity

1 Ever musing I delight to tread The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed On disappointed Love.

While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush Sings sweet and Melancholy,

And the thrush Converses with the Dove.

Gently brawling down the turnpike road,

Sweetly noisy falls the Silent Stream— The Moon emerges from behind a Cloud And darts upon the Myrtle Grove her beam.

Ah! then what Lovely Scenes appear,

The hut, the Cot, the Grot, and Chapel queer,

And eke the Abbey too a mouldering heap,

Conceal'd by aged pines her head doth rear And quite invisible doth take a peep.