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To Miss Austen

The following Ode to Pity is dedicated, from a thorough knowledge of her pitiful Nature, by her obedt humle Servt.

The Author

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.

June 3d 1793