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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,
WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
To her fair works did Nature link
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd :
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
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,
he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty.