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Ode to pity by Jane Austen

Ever musing I delight to tread 

The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove 

Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed 

On disappointed Love. 

While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush 

Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush 

Converses with the Dove. 
Gently brawling down the turnpike road, 

Sweetly noisy falls the Silent Stream– 

The Moon emerges from behind a Cloud 

And darts upon the Myrtle Grove her beam. 

Ah! then what Lovely Scenes appear, 

The hut, the Cot, the Grot, and Chapel queer, 

And eke the Abbey too a mouldering heap, 

Cnceal’d by aged pines her head doth rear 

And quite invisible doth take a peep.

….. The End …..

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