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HEARD a thousand blended notes,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
THE LOST SHEPHERD.
HE snows arise, and foul and fierce All Winter drives along the darken'd air. In his own loose-revolving fields the swain. Disaster'd stands; sees other hills ascend,
Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,
A dire descent! beyond the power of frost;
Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge,
Smooth'd up with snow; and, what is land, unknown,
What water, of the still unfrozen spring,
In the loose marsh or solitary lake,
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,