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XXIV.

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.

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XXVI.

“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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