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H! think'st thou, Laura, then, that wealth Should make me thus my youth, and health, And freedom, and repose resign?— Ah no!—I toil to gain by stealth One look, one tender glance of thine.

Born where huge hills on hills are piled, In Caledonia's distant wild, Unbounded Liberty was mine: But thou upon my hopes hast smiled, And bade me be a slave of thine!

Amid the gloomy haunts of gain, Of weary hours I not complain, While Hope forbids me to repine, And whispering tells me I obtain Pity from that soft heart of thine.