XXXI
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n Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;The gale, it plies the saplings double,And thick on Severn snow the leaves. 'Twould blow like this through holt and hangerWhen Uricon the city stood:'Tis the old wind in the old anger,But then it threshed another wood. Then, 'twas before my time, the RomanAt yonder heaving hill would stare:The blood that warms an English yeoman,The thoughts that hurt him, they were there. There, like the wind through woods in riot,Through him the gale of life blew high;The tree of man was never quiet:Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. The gale, it plies the saplings double,It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:To-day the Roman and his troubleAre ashes under Uricon.
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