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What could I do, unaided and unblest?

My Father! gone was every friend of thine:

And kindred of dead husband are at best

Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,
With little kindness would to me incline.

Ill was I then for toil or service fit:

With tears whose course no effort could confine,
By the road-side forgetful would I sit

Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.

I led a wandering life among the fields;
Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused,
I lived upon what casual bounty yields,
Now coldly given, now utterly refused.
The ground I for my bed have often used:
But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth
Is, that I have my inner self abused,

Forgone the home delight of constant truth,

And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth,

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Three years thus wandering, often have I view'd, In tears, the sun towards that country tend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:

And now across this moor my steps I bend―

Oh! tell me whither

-for no earthly friend

Have I." She ceased, and weeping turned away,

As if because her tale was at an end

She wept ;-because she had no more to say

Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.



I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it griev'd my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd:
Their thoughts I cannot measure :—
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there,

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?



With an incident in which he was concerned.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An Old Man dwells, a little man,
I've heard he once was tall.
Of years he has upon his back,

No doubt, a burthen weighty;


says he is three score and ten,

But others say he's eighty.

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