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When over the deep, scarce heard, the zephyr strays,
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Nor from the orange shakes its odorous flower: ' --
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But ah! since Love has all my heart possessed,
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Disturbed, and wild as ocean's troubled breast,
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When the hoarse tempest of the night is there!
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Yet my complaining spirit asks no rest,
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This bleeding bosom cherishes despair.
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Nature! thou active Principle, whose depths
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The curious mind would willingly explore;
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The jarring atoms of a various world!
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Never reached, by Faith, thy first stupendous cause.
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Immediate emanation of a God!
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Thou shalt aspire, when Gratitude assists,
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And bid it live beyond the wreck of worlds.
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For her let Fancy pierce the deep abyss,
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Dart through the liquid element, and tread
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The shelly pavement, dazzling with the glare
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Of varied hues; the lively coral here,
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Here the pale pearl; the lovely vivid green
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Of brilliant onyx, and the sapphire's blue.
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Norwegian toils, and, stung by Fear, descends
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More swift than eagles mount meridian heights,
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Feels rapture added to the joy of life,
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While Neptune, from his floating couch, thus speaks:
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Portland my deep dominions dares explore,
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Nor here alone the Naturalist pursues
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For her the bold adventurer shall dare
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The golden serpent in Arabian wilds,
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Has filled with sulphur; tread once hallowed earth
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First hailed with grateful joy, and fearless press
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The Caspian wave: for her the rover seeks
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The scattered remnants of a ruined world.
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But that the surge yonder planet would overwhelm,
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The roots of Ocean would I throw to land,
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And all my gems should meet her generous eye;
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Would shrink each coward wave beneath his fellow.
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In sweet exchange; magnificently good,
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And bid each future minute fly in peace.
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Thus spoke the God, the listening surges catch
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And, since his absence, Melody has mourned.
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PROUD of her ancient Race, Britannia shows
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Where, in her Wales, another Eden glows,
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And all her Sons, to Truth, and Honour dear,
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Prove they deserve the Paradise they share.
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Fair as its meads, and liberal as its streams;
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With half the youth of Cambria at her feet;
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Stream over her form, and lighten in her face;
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While Sense and Virtue's blended influence dart
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Boast the fair Virtues, and the radiant Loves,
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Floats through thy vales, thy mansions, and thy bowers;
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Her hallowed temple there Religion shows,
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In ancient days, when Gothic Art displayed
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Whose nameless charms the Dorian claims efface,
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Then plied, with curious skill, now rarely shown,
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The adorning chisel, over the yielding stone.
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But as those Graces which alone delight
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With their fine forms the captivated sight,
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Must not aspire to emulate the Art
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That, while it charms the eye, pervades the heart,
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See Gothic Elegance the palm resigns,
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When Art in intellectual greatness shines.
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Within these holy Walls, she lives, she reigns.
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Hears the LAST TRUMPET thrill its murky gloom,
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With smile triumphant over DEATH, and Time,
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Lifts the rapt eye, and rears the form sublime.
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Fair modern Science over the Arts of yore;
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As SCULPTURE speaks, and heavenly MUSIC breathes,
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SAY, dearest Stella, why this pensive Air?
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Tell me, OH tell thy Sorrows and thy Care;
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Why thy Lips tremble, and thy Cheeks are pale?
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Why heaves thy Bosom with a mournful Gale?
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Let not thy Eyes for distant Evils flow,
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Nor rack thy Bosom with prophetic Woe:
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Imagined Ills deceive our aching Eyes,
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As lengthened Shades appear of monstrous Size,
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Though pictured Joy deludes our panting Souls,
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When round the Heart its smiling Phantom rolls;
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The gay Impostor mocks our reaching Arms;
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Yet while it lasts, the pleasing Vision charms:
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Not so Distrust, her gloomy Forehead rears;
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She brings cold Anguish and a crowd of Fears:
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Expel this Fury from your guiltless Breast.
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The wise and mighty Guardian of Mankind,
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And though no Pearls should in our Potion fall,
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Let us be cheerful while he spares the Gall:
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Yet Peace alone can bless your equal Days.
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But coldly viewed or quickly thrown aside,
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See cringing Merit at the Gates of Pride;
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In Youth neglected as in Age despised:
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Behold the Scorn, as late the Dread of all
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The Politician from his Glory fall:
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He whose sly Genius could a Kingdom rule,
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Shall have his Exit hissed by every Fool:
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With aching Bosom and a streaming Eye
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Who in his Age must to Oppression bow,
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And yield his Laurels to a younger Brow:
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Those Laurels shall the proud Successor wear
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A while; then strip and leave them to his Heir.
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Whose meaner Talents never were made to shine:
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Our Good and Ill, our Vice and Virtue falls
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