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I knelt....A parent spurned me from his feet,
And drove me forth to want and infamy.... I mérit this....but not that thou shouldst treat With scorn that wretch whose fault was love of
The night-blast howls.....Onward the black clouds
roll, Darkening the moon-beam with their sullen
soul.... Faithless, adieu ! I find a watery tomb."
'Tis still as Death....But hark! the sounding stream
Gives token where she plunged...Dimly descried, On the dark wave with faint and transient gleam Sparkles the foam ; then still the waters glide.
DEDICATED TO ALL ADMIRERS OF THE FAMILIAR
STYLE OF TALE-WRITING, SO POPULAR IN 1800.
The morn was fair, and fresh the breeze
and trimmed his little sail,
Then o'er the lake he steered, to gain
But who is she in Basil's cot
And who but Rachel may it be?
And now she calls her little child,