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65

FROM MILTON's EPITAPHIUM DAMONIS.

TRANSLATION.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

O where may I expect relief?
What faithful breast will sooth my grief?
Whom may I, undisguised, show
The secret source of every woe?
Whose easy converse will remove,
By tales of Poetry and Love,
Of wintry skies the gloomy power,
And laugh away the evening hour!
While, around the blazing hearth,
Crackling the nut inspireth mirth;
And at the fire the roasting pear
Hissing dissipates each care:
But without an angry cloud,
Borne by the sweeping winds aloud,
Thunders with unrelenting stroke
Upon my friendly sheltering oak.