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A Song.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A Song.

[Loud was the wind, and rough the main]

Loud was the wind, and rough the main;
But life was past my care:
I thought of absence and disdain;
And felt no storm, but there.
The seas their wonders might reveal;
But Chloe's eyes have more:
Nor all the treasure they conceal,
Can equal mine on shore.

21

From native Britain's temp'rate coast
Remove me farther yet,
To shiver in eternal frost,
Or melt with India's heat;
Her image shall my days beguile,
And still my dream shall be
The tuneful voice, and tender smile,
Tho' ne'er vouchsaf'd to me.