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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.
“One morn, I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he;