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But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade; The sun on drearier hollow never shone:
So will it be, as I have often said,
Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone."
"Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
For them the quiet creatures whom he loves.
The Pleasure-house is dust :-behind, before,
She leaves these objects to a slow decay
That what we are, and have been, may be known; But, at the coming of the milder day,
These monuments shall all be overgrown.
One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs
At evening, when the stars had just begun
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls
That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the wat❜ry vale and shout again
Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and sereams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled, a wild scene
Of mirth and jocund din. And, when it chanced
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain torrents, or the visible scene
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv'd
Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village school,
And there along that bank when I have pass'd
At evening, I believe, that near his grave
A full half-hour together I have stood,
Mute for he died when he was ten years old.