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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.

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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 crossd in hopeless love.

ELLEWYORK PELIC LIBRARY

AST OR LENOXAN TILDELTONATIONS.

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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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