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ANACREONTIC.



IN the midnight watches dreary,

At the hour when Arctus, weary,

Turns him toward Bootes' arm,

And the hapless race of mortals

Leave behind, at Slumber's portals,

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Weariness and weird alarm,

As I lay serenely napping,

To the door came Cupid tapping,

"Who," cried I, "is at the door?

Why do you disturb my dreaming?"

Answered Love, with gentle seeming,

"Open for me, I implore.

"I am but an infant tearful,

Weak and helpless, be not fearful.

Wandering through the moonless night,

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