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Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillock'd graves.
But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog,
His guide for many a day, now come to mourn
The master and the friend—conjunction rare!
A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul,
Tho' bred to brave the deep: the lightning's flash
Had dimm'd, not clos'd, his mild, but sightless

He was a welcome guest thro' all his range;
(It was not wide;) no dog would bay at him:
Children would run to meet him on his way,
And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales.
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship:
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand
Upon their heads, while silent mov'd his lips.

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Peace to thy spirit, that now looks on me,

Perhaps with greater pity than I felt

To see thee wand'ring darkling on thy way.

But let me quit this melancholy spot, And roam where Nature gives a parting smile. As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods A second blow of many flowers appears, Tlowers faintly ting'd, and breathing no perfume. But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland

wreath That circles Autumn's brow: The ruddy haws Now clothe the half-leaPd thorn; the bramble

bends Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream

That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: Oft statue-like I gaze,
In vacancy of thought, upon that stream,
And chace, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam,
Or rowan's cluster'd branch, or harvest-sheaf,
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.


Axow dazzling white the snowy scene! deep,


The stillness of the winter Sabbath day,—

Not ev'n a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the fields,

Each hollow pathway level with the plain:

Hid are the bushes, save that here and there

Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.

High-ridg'd the whirl'd drift has almost reach'd


The powder'd key-stone of the church-yard porch. Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie

buried; No step approaches to the house of prayer.

The flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse, And shew the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge, Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time To visit nature in her grand attire. Tho' perilous the mountainous ascent, A noble recompence the danger brings. How beautiful the plain stretch'd far below, Unvaried tho' it be, save by yon stream With azure windings, or the leafless wood. But what the beauty of the plain, compar'd To that sublimity which reigns enthron'd,

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