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 ILD beamed the sun’s departing ray,
 * Low sinking in the rosy west;

Still was the closing hour of day
 * Sacred to silence, peace, and rest!

When a poor Wanderer, bent with woe, O’er the moor travelled, sad and slow.

By dire misfortune forced to roam,
 * He rambled on—he knew not where;

In hopes to find a tranquil home,
 * To find relief from want and care.

The noonday of his life was past, And Age his mantle o’er him cast.

He stopped, and, lingering on his road,
 * Admired the lovely prospect round;

Slowly the lonely heath he trod,
 * And gazed, in pleasing thought profound!

Enraptured at the enchanting scene, His bosom heaved with joy serene.

But sudden-lowering clouds arise,
 * And blackening mists the scene deform;

Terrific darkness veils the skies,
 * Foreboding an impending storm!