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5

I. SONG.

How soon o'er the morn of my youth
Her shadows pale sorrow has thrown,
How soon from the glances of truth
Life's pleasing delusions are flown!
No more thro' the vale as I rove
Bright visions illumine the air:
The mountains are clouded—the grove
Resounds with the voice of despair.
Return, ye gay dreams of delight,
And gently deceive my fond mind;
For truth, while she hastens your flight,
Leaves torment unceasing behind!