Song 8 Poem by Anne Hunter

Song 8



TO wander alone when the moon faintly beaming,
With glimmering lustre darts through the dim shade,
Where owls seek for covert, and night birds complaining,
Add sound to the horrors that darken the glade.
'Tis not for the happy, come daughter of sorrow,
'Tis here thy sad thoughts are embalm'd in thy tears,

Where lost in the past, nor regarding to-morrow,
There's nothing for hopes, there's nothing for fears.

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