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On some fond breast the parting soul relies;

Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries; E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If, 'chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate;

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Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say:

"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,

To meet the Sun upon the upland lawn.

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of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length, at noontide, would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

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