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“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

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

Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;

Another came,—nor yet beside the rill,

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

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“ 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,

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

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