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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,
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.'