Poetry Archives

Ah! if your eye should e’er these lines survey,
Dismiss from thence its penetrating ray:
Let Criticism then her distance keep,
And dreaded Justice then be lull’d to sleep;
For, let whatever sentence be their due,
I feel I cannot censure bear from you.


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A British Maid awaits the arrival of her lover from the
battle, on a hill, where, at its commencement, she had
retired to make vows to heaven for his success.—
Evening.