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THE Shepherd OLIVER, grown white with
years, Like some old oak weigh'd down bywinter snows, Now drew the village sighs, and village tears,
His eye-lids sinking to their last repose.
Yet ere expir'd Life's trembling flame, and pale,
Thus to the bleating bands around his door, That seem'd to mourn his absence from their vale,
The feeble Shepherd spoke, and spoke no more!
O my Flock! whose kind voices I hear,
Adieu! ah, for ever adieu!
No more on your hills I appear,
And together our pleasure pursue:
No more, at the peep of the day,
From valley to valley we rove, 'Mid the streamlets, and verdure of May,
'Mid the zephyrs, and shade of the grove.
No more to my voice shall ye run,
And, bleating, your Shepherd surround; And, while I repose in the sun,
Like a guard, watch my sleep on the ground,
When Winter, with tempest and cold,
Dims the eye of pale NATURE with woe, I lead you no more to the fold,
With your fleeces all cover'd with snow.
Oh, mourn not at Oliver's death!
Unwept my last sand let it fall:
For who his past years can recall?
Oh, take all your Shepherd can give
Receive my last thanks, and last sigh; Whose simplicity taught me to live,
And whose innocence teaches to die !
END OF VOL. II.
PRINTED BY W. SPILSBURY, 57, SNOWHIIL.