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210

THE CONFESSION.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Never till now could I with them agree
Who tell us, Want of Bliss is Misery;
I thought that Joy might in remembrance last,
And Pleasures, till forgotten, were not past:
But when from my Cleora I remov'd,
Too sadly true the slighted Tenet prov'd.
That she a lasting impress can impart,
Witness ye Powers who read her Strephon's heart!
Wishes and all that's ere call'd Love I feel;
But Griefs the wonted place of Pleasures fill.
So widow'd Earth, after a sun-bright day,
Retains the warmth of each enlivening ray;
But mourns in mists while the kind God's away.