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What could I do, unaided and unblest?
Ill was I then for toil or service fit:
With tears whose course no effort could confine,
I led a wandering life among the fields ;
Three years thus wandering, often have I view'd,
heart lost all its fortitude:
WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd :
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
If I these thoughts may not prevent,
THE OLD HUNTSMAN,
With an incident in which he was concerned.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty.