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 varied ſhapes, when death appears, The thoughts of thee my boſom cheers; The troubled main, The wind and rain, My ardent paſſion prove; Laſh’d to the helm, Shou’d ſeas o’erwhelm, I’d think on thee, my love.

But ſhould the gracious pow’rs be kind, Diſpel the gloom, and ſtill; the wind, And waft me to thy arms once more, Unto my long-loſt native ſhore; No more the main I'd tempt again, But render joys improve; I then with thee Shou’d happy be, And think on nought but love.

ye fields an’ meadows green, The bleſt retreat of peace and love! Have I, ſilent, ftol'n from hence, With my young ſwain a while to rove: