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TWILIGHT'S Soft dews steal o'er the village-green,
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!
Mark yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees,
See, thro' the fractured pediment revealed,
As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear.
Those once-loved forms, still breathing thro' their dust,
As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme, The bark now silvered by the touch of Time; Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Thro' sister elms that waved their summer-shade;