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FAST by the margin of a moſſy rill,

That wandered, gurgling, down a heath-clad hill,

An ancient ſhepherd ſtood, oppreſs'd with woe,

And ey'd the ocean's flood that foam'd below;

Where, gently rocking on the riſing tide,

A ſhip's unwonted form was ſeen to ride.

Unwonted, well I ween; for ne'er before,

Had touch'd one keel, the ſolitary ſhore;

Nor had the ſwain's rude footſteps ever ſtray'd,

Beyond the ſhelter of his native ſhade.

His few remaining hairs were ſilver grey,

And his rough face had ſeen a better day.

Around him, bleating, ſtray'd a ſcanty flock,

And a few goats o'erhung the neighbouring rock.

One faithful dog his ſorrows ſeem'd to ſhare,

And ſtrove, with many a trick to eaſe his care.

While o'er his furrow'd cheeks, the ſalt drops ran,

He tun'd his ruſtic reed, and thus began: