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28
THE ROGUE'S NIGHTMARE.
One who, the self-same morning, had decoyedThe widow and her son with glozing talk,
At eve through springing pastures walked abroad,
And, after his poor sort, enjoyed his walk.
That night he dreamed: fresh flowers and April grass
Smothered his cruel pen; the white lamb kneeled
Upon his crafty parchments, signed and sealed
By victim hands; a babbling stream did pass
Sheer through those written wiles, till that base ink,
Which robbed the widow's mite, the orphan's dole,
Lost colour. But that dream-begotten blink
Of damage waked at once his mammon-soul;
From his keen glance all vernal tokens shrink
While Fraud and Twilight watch the lying scroll.
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