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

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

Or crazed 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. 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,

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown, Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to Misery all he had, a tear; He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a

friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose),

The bosom of his father and his God.

END OF VOL. I.

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