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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 ! 0! 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
TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON.
Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night!
Thou bleedest, my poor Heart ! and thy distress
TO THE AUTHOR OF
SCHILLER ! that hour I would have wished to die,