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For 'tis not easy to forget One, who thro' life has lov'd you still, And you, however late, might yet With sighs to Memory giv'n, regret The Shepherd of the Hill.

Yet otherwhile it seem'd as if young Hope Her flattering pencil gave to Fancy's hand, And in his wanderings, rear'd to sooth his soul Ideal bowers of pleasure—Then, of Solitude And of his hermit life, still more enamour'd, His home was in the forest; and wild fruits