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What could I do, unaided and unblest?
My Father! gone was every friend of thine:
And kindred of dead husband are at best
Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,
With little kindness would to me incline.
Ill was I then for toil or service lit:
With tears whose course no effort could confine,
By the road-side forgetful would I sit
Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.
I led a wandering life among the fields;
Three years thus wandering, often have I view'd,
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,
To her fair works did Nature link
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,
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,