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But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade;
“ Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For them the quiet creatures whom he loves.
The Pleasure-house is dust :-behind, before,
She leaves these objects to a slow decay
One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye
Cliffs And Islands of Winander ! many a time, At evening, when the stars had just begun To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake, And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Press'd closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 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
pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill,
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.