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What could I do, unaided and unblest?
And kindred of dead husband are at best
Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,
Ill was I then for toil or service fit:
With tears whose course no effort could confine,
Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.
I led a wandering life among the fields;
Forgone the home delight of constant truth,
And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.
thus wandering, often have I view'd,
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.
WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
To her fair works did Nature link
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd:
But the least motion which they made,
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,
What man has made of man?
THE OLD HUNTSMAN,
With an incident in which he was concerned.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
But others say he's eighty.