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For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If 'chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate;

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Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say: “off have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,

To meet the Sun upon the upland lawn.



“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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