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HEN latest Autumn spreads her evening veil, And the grey mists from these dim waves arise, I love to listen to the hollow sighs, Thro' the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale: For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale, Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes; Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies, As of night-wanderers, who their woes bewail! Here, by his native stream, at such an hour, Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet, And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden'd wind! O Melancholy!—such thy magic power, That to the soul these dreams are often sweet, And sooth the pensive visionary mind!