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The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe

with his letters and journals, and his life, by his son. In eight volumes

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271

'T was past the dead of night, when every sound
That nature mingles might be heard around;
But none from man,—man's feeble voice was hush'd,
Where rivers swelling roar'd, and woods were crush'd;
Hurried by these, the wife could sit no more,
But must the terrors of the night explore.