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 a mouldering heap, 
Cnceal'd by aged pines her head doth rear 
And quite invisible doth take a peep.

Form: Ode

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