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And though when employ'd in the deep forest glade, His days have seem'd slowly to move, Yet Phoebe going home, through the wood-walk has stray'd To bid him good night!—and whatever she said Was more sweet than the voice of the dove.

Fair Hope, that the lover so fondly believes, Then repeated each soul-soothing speech, And touch'd with illusion, that often deceives The future with light; as the sun through the leaves Illumines the boughs of the beech.