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48  Oh! if I had but my way, Would the ruffian live a day? If he were in earth array’d, Should I sorrow—would the maid?

yester eve I journey’d late, To shun the edged and naked blast, Amid the fern my limbs I cast, And as I lay it was my fate (The earth my couch, the grove my bower,) To fall asleep—I slept an hour. And there I saw a dream of fear: Sudden my place of slumber near A pallid flood appears to quiver, And rolling on to threat me seems With billows mighty as the streams That rise in Taf’s o’erflooded river; Like bulls, in fury and in might, The breakers seem intent to mite; Out from a hundred glens they speed; Then was I desolate indeed!