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'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,
'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.’