Then would he wander by the river's side,
And fix his eyes upon the falling tide;
The deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen,
And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then:
There, to his discontented thoughts a prey,
The melancholy mortal pined away.
The neighb'ring poor at length began to speak
Of Abel's ramblings—he'd been gone a week,
They knew not where; and little care they took
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