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The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind.
And hither does one Poet sometimes row
His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled
With plenteous store of heath and withered fern,
(A lading which he with his sickle cuts
Among the mountains,) and beneath this roof
He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool
Lie round him, even as if they were a part
Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed
He through that door-place looks toward the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep,
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.

To a SEXTON.

Let thy wheel-barrow alone.
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy Bone-house bone on bone?
Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid.

-These died in peace each with the other, Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform eight feet square
Take not even a finger-joint :
Andrew's whole fire-side is there,

Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon's sickly Daughter lies,
From weakness, now, and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, Lilies, side by side,
Violets in families !
By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou; old Gray-beard ! art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.

And, should I live through sun and raita Seven widowed

years without my Jane, O Sexton, do not then remove her, Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover! ANDREW JONES.

* I hate that Andrew Jones : he'll breed
His children up to waste and pillage.
I wish the press-gang or the drum
With its tantara sound, would come
And sweep him from the village !"

I said not this, because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipples
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he had done,
A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple.

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