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.2
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, in mouldering heap,
Concealed by aged pines, her head doth rear
And, quite invisible, doth take a peep.
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