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My heart throbs at the thought, but cannot thank thee. And thou wilt follow me and share my fortune, Or good or ill! Ah! what of good can with a skulking outlaw In his far wand'rings, or his secret haunts, E'er be? O no! thou shalt not follow me.

Good may be found for faithful, virtuous love, In every spot; and for the wand'ring outlaw, The very sweetest nooks o' the earth are his. And be his passing home the goatherd's shed, The woodman's branchy hut, or fisher's cove, Whose pebbly threshold by the rippling tide Is softly washed, he may contented live, Ay, thankfully; fed like the fowls of heaven With daily food sent by a Father's hand.

Thanks, gentle, virtuous Mencia; but, alas! Far different is the hapless outlaw's home From what thy gentle fancy fashioneth. With lawless men he must protection find. Some murky cavern where the light of day Hath never peer'd—where the pitch'd brand, instead, Sheds its red glare on the wild revelry Of fierce banditti; or the pirate's bark,