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ODE TO PIT Y.
Thou, the friend of man aflign'd,
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
His wild unsated foe!
By Pella's Bard, a magic name,
humble. rite : Long, Pity, let the nations view Thy sky-worn robes of tendereft blue,
And eyes of dewy light!
But wherefore need I wander wide
Deserted stream, and mute?
Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.
There first the wren thy myrtles shed
To him thy cell was shewn ;
Thy turtles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid,
Thy temple's pride defign:
In all who view the shrine.
There Picture's toil shall well relate,
+ A river in Suflex.
O'er mortal bliss prevail :
With each disastrous tale.
There let me oft, retir'd by day,
Allow'd with thee to dwell :
To hear a British shell !