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BENEATH the beech whole branches bare
Smit with the lightning's vivid glare,
Within a folitary grave,
Lowr'd the grim morn, in murky dies.
And dimm'd the struggling day;
Yon rulh-grown moor with fable waves,
I mark'd his desultory pace,
With many a mutter'd found;
The reeking blade, the hand embru’d,
Full many a melancholy night
ir He watch'd the slow return of light; And fought the pow'rs of fleepers
JOLI 37 V
O'er his fad couch, and in the balm
: 31: 3: 01.07A Full oft, unknowing and unknowing net i He wore his endless noons, alone, q's.hu
Amid th'autumnal wood: OT
Abrupt the social board to quit,
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Beck’ning the wretch to tormehts new, w 19.
A spectre pale, appeared';
And brought the day's unwelcome close,
« Is this, " miftaken Scorn will cry,
“ Could build the genuine rhyme ?,
Ah! from the Muse that bofom mild
To strike the deathful blow :
With many a feeling too refin’d,
Though doom'd hard pénury, to prove,
To griefs congenial prone,
While Mifery's form his fancy drew
Then with not o'er his earthly tomb
To drop its deadly dew:
That rudely binds his turf forlorn,
What though no marble-piled bust
With speaking sculpture wrought ?
To build a visionary fhrine, Hung with unfading flow'rs, froin fairy regions brought
What though refus'd'each chanted rite?
To touch the shadowy fhell :
Of Laura, loft in early bloom, as'
To soothe a lone, unhallow'd shade,
Within an ivy'd nook :
More radiant hot its parting tay,
“ Forbear, fond bard, thy partial praise ; « Nor thus for guilt in specious lays
“ The wreath of glory twine: * In vain with hues of gorgeous glow
" Gay Fancy gives her veft to flow, # Unless trụth's matron-hand the floating folds confine
'Just Heaven, man's fortitude to prove, * Perinits through life at large to rove
16 The tribes of hell-born woe ; " Yet the fame Pow'r that wisely sends
Life's fierceft ills, indulgent lends * Religion's golden shield to break th' embattled foc.
46 Her aid divine had lullid to resto!
" And stay'd the riling form :
“ To gild the darken'd hemisphere,' * And give the wonted bloom to nature's blasted form:
« Vain man ! 'tis heaven's prerogative
" Thy tributary breath :
“ Await thy doom, nor impious haste “ Topluck from God's right hand his Instruments of
THREE years in London Bobadil had been,
Yet not the lions nor the tombs had seen;