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Oh! blest, though bitter be their source, Though dark the fountain of Remorse, Blest are the tears which pour from thence, Th' atoning stream of Penitence! And let not Pity check the tide By which the heart is purified; Let not vain comfort turn its course, Or timid love repress its force! Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand, To bear luxuriance o'er the land; Forbid the life-restoring rains To fall on Afric's burning plains; Close up the fount that gush'd to cheer The pilgrim o'er the waste who trod; But check thou not one holy tear, Which Penitence devotes to God!

Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne'er. Was rous'd by huntsman's bugle there; So rude, that scarce might human eye Sustain their dread sublimity; So awful, that the timid swain, Nurtur'd amidst their dark domain, Had peopled, with unearthly forms, Their mists, their forests, and their storms; She, whose blue eye, of laughing light, Once made each festal scene more bright; Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest, Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest,