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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.
“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
“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 church-way path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read the lay
Gray'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."