Felix Randal

F{'e}lix R{'a}ndal the f{'a}rrier, O is he d{'e}ad then? my d{'u}ty all
{'e}nded,
  Who have watched his mould of man, bigboned and hardy-handsome
  Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it, and some
 Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended?
 Sickness broke him. Impatient, he cursed at first, but mended
  Being anointed |&| all; tho' a heavenlier heart began some
  M{'o}nths {'e}arlier, since {'I} had our sw{'e}et repr{'i}eve |&|
r{'a}nsom
 T{'e}ndered to him. {'A}h well, God r{'e}st him {'a}ll road {'e}ver he
off{'e}nded!

 This s{'e}eing the s{'i}ck end{'e}ars them t{'o} us, us t{'o}o it
end{'e}ars.
 My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears,
  Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal;
 How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years,
 When thou at the random grim forge, powerful amidst peers
  Didst fettle for the great grey drayhorse his bright |&| battering
sandal!

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