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By the brook where it winds thro' the wood of Arbeal, Or amid the deep forest, to moan, The poor wandering Phoebe will silently steal; The pain of her bosom no reason can heal, And she loves to indulge it alone.

Her senses are injured; her eyes dim with tears; By the river she ponders; and weaves Reed garlands, against her dear William appears, Then breathlessly listens, and fancies she hears His light step in the half-wither'd leaves.