The noble oak, in distant ages seen,
With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green,
Though now its bare and forky branches show
How much it lacks the vital warmth below—
The stately ruin yet our wonder gains,
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Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains;
Much more shall real wants and cares of age
Our gentler passions in their cause engage.—
Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years,