THE rosy tint of morn I love,
And Ev’ning’s sober shade;
When through the charming woods I rove,
In quest of my dear maid.
I love to hear the Blackbird’s note,
When warbling in the vale;
And Philomel’s sweet tuneful throat
Resounding through the gale.
Add dear to me the hour of night,
When Luna climbs the sky:–
But dearer far, to ear and sight,
The maid for whom I die.
(Elizabeth Beverley)
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