“There, at the foot 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.

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree: * Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

· The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

'Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. * Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'