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Normale Version: A Rencontre at Tytherrington
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A Rencontre at Tytherrington

Forth from the farmer’s hospitable nook,
Among the trees and where the waters gushed, -
A holy calmness all the welkin hushed,
And lo! before me stood, or rather shook,

A tall gaunt figure iron want had crushed
Into a thing scarce humanlike. He spoke,
Help in his native accents did invoke,
While though his frame a tide of diverse feelings rushed.

“Poor, wretched, and from Paris!” all he said;
Yet, plainly writen in his visage pale,
Fancy cold still piece out the mournful tale;

And, right or wrong, the history fully read
Of the wan outcast in a Gloucester vale,
In that sad, low, strange tongue, imploring bread.