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In life's fair morn, I knew an aged seer,
Who sad and lonely past his joyless year;
Betray'd, heart-broken, from the world he ran,
And shunn'd, oh dire extreme! the face of man;
Humbly he rear'd his hut within the wood,
Hermit his vest, a hermit's was his food,
Nitch'd in some corner of the gelid cave,
Where chilling drops the rugged rockstone lave
Hour after hour, the melancholy sage,
Drop after drop to reckon, would engage

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The ling'ring day, and trickling as they fell,
A tear went with them to the narrow well;
Then thus he moraliz'd as slow it past,
“This, brings me nearer Lucia than the last;
“And this, now streaming from the eye,” said he,
“Oh! my lov'd child, will bring me nearer thee?’