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chorus.

For he govern'd his passion with an absolute sway
And grew wiser and better as his strength wore away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

ROSLIN RUINS.

At dead of night, the hour when courts,
thro' the wild maze of pleasures rove,
And Mira joins the insnaring sports
while art assumes the voice of love:
To Roslin's ruins I repair,
a solitary wretch forlorn,
Tomourn unseen, unpitied there,
my hapeless love her cruel scorn.

No sound of joy disturbs my strain;
no hind is whistling on the hill:
No herdsman winding o'er the plain;
no maiden singing by the rill
Esk, murm'ring thro’ the darksome pines,
reflects the moon’s uncertain beams;
While thro' the clouds she faintly shines,
in fancy’s eye the pale ghost gleams.

Not so the night that in thy halls,
once. Roslin, danc’d in joy along;
The owl now screams within thy walls
that echo’d mirth’s inspiring song;
Where bats now flit on dusky wings,
Th’ empurpled feast was wont to flow;