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Rh

AREWEL, Aruna!—on whose varied shore My early vows were paid to Nature's shrine, When thoughtless joy, and infant hope were mine, And whose lorn stream has heard me since deplore Too many sorrows! Sighing I resign Thy solitary beauties—and no more Or on thy rocks, or in thy woods recline, Or on the heath, by moonlight lingering, pore On air-drawn phantoms—While in Fancy's ear, As in the evening wind thy murmurs swell, The Enthusiast of the Lyre who wander'd here, Seems yet to strike his visionary shell, Of power to call forth Pity's tenderest tear, Or wake wild Phrenzy—from her hideous cell!