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The Pilgrim of Love.

A hermit who dwells in the solitudes cross'd me,
As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press'd;
The aged man paus'd on his staff to accost me
And proffer'd his cell as my mansion of rest.
Ah! nay, courteous father, onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.

Yet tarry, my son, 'till the burning noon passes,
Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thy head;
The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses,
And rushes fresh pull'd for siesta are spread.
Ah! nay, courteous father, onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love,
For the pilgrim of love for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.