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Rh The traveller sees the danger near, And shuddering stands, appalled with fear!

Now raged the bleak wind o’er the plain,
 * The billows bounded on the shore;

Swift fell the cold and pelting rain,
 * And loud the storm began to roar.

The unhappy wanderer mourned his fate— He mourned—but ah! alas! too late.

Wild was the prospect, far and wide,
 * And all was dreadful, dark, and drear;

No shepherd’s sheep-pent fold he spied,
 * No friendly roof or shelter near;

While fiercer still the tempest grew, As o’er the lonely heath it flew.

Yet Hope still cheered him on his way:
 * “Night soon will fly with its dark shade;

Aurora soon will ope the day,
 * And sweep the dew-drops down the glade.

Soon will the fearful storm be o’er, And soon you’ll see the cottage door.”

But ah! delusive Hope! how vain
 * Are all thy fond, enrapturing dreams;

Loud howled the raging wind, the rain
 * Still poured in swift-descending streams.

Before the blast the forest yields, And shivered branches strew the fields.