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His fingers to the lyre he turn'd,

Then all with chords of sorrow strung;

The lost delights of heaven he mourn'd,

But more her loss, for whom he sung:

He sung so sweetly that the strain

Drew pity from the gods above;

They call'd the wanderer back again,

And gave the MUSE to crown his love.

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My strain is neglected and dead is my hope:

But

you never shall hear me complain

To thy cliffs, rocky SEATON, adieu !

SONG.

GENTLE Stream, whose wild meanders

Cheer the birds and feed the flowers,

While by thee Amelia wanders,

Wilt thou soothe her pensive hours?

If the world were at my bidding,

Music should her steps attend,

And where'er her feet were treading,

Flowers should bloom, and sweets ascend.

SONG.

TO A LADY GOING TO HER FAMILY IN IRELAND.

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