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Rh Now the lonely owlet peeps From the barn or twisted brake, And the blue mist slowly creeps Curling on the silver lake

As the trout in speckled pride, Playful from its bosom springs, To the banks a ruffled tide Verges in successive rings. Freshly plays the Evening air, Sweetly fall its shadows gray; Even man forgets his care, Thoughtless for the coming day.

Gentle sisters, of the three, Give you not the prize to me?

 

lab'rer, 'mid the summer's golden hour, Full oft I trace thy little busy flight, With pleasure see thee perch from flow'r to flow'r, On violets, woodbines, roses, lilies bright. 