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CHILDLESS FATHER.
Il brethodolog !

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-Of coats and of jackets both grey, scarlet

and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were

seen; With their comely blue aprons and caps white

as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

Vol. II.

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* In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a bason full of Sprigs of Boxwood is placed at the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.

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All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one,
And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sate, and eat his food in solitude;
And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand,
That still attempting to prevent the waste
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground, and the small mountain

birds, Not venturing yet to peck their destin'd meal, Approach'd within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known, and

then He was so old, he seems not older now; He travels on, a solitary man,. So helpless in appearance, that for him The sauntering horseman-traveller does not

throw With careless hand his alıns upon the ground, But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, But still when he has given his horse the rein Towards the aged Beggar, turns a look, Side-long and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door

She turns her wheel, if on the road she see's
The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The Post-boy when his rattling wheels o’ertake
The aged Beggar, in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchanco
The old Man does not change his course, the

Boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart..

He travels on,, a solitary Man,
His age has no companion. On the ground:
His eyes are turn’d, and, as he moves along,
They move along the ground; and evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields with rural works; of hill and dale,
And the blue-sky, one little span of earth
Is all his prospect.. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground,
He plies his weary journey, seeing still,
And never knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one

track,
The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left
Impress'd on the white-road, in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet

VOL. II. L 2

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