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“Of perfect light immortal—Vainly boast “ That golden Broom its sunny robe of flowers: “Fair are the sunny flowers; but, fading soon “And fruitless, yield the forester's regard To the well-loaded Wilding—Shepherd, there “Behold the fate of song, and lightly deem “Of all but moral beauty."

“ Not in vain". I hear my HAMILTON reply, (The torch of fancy in his eye) “ 'Tis not in vain," I hear him say, “ That nature paints her works so gay;

For, fruitless though that fairy broom, “ Yet still we love her lavish bloom. “Cheered with that bloom, yon desart wild “Its native horrors lost, and smiled. “ And oft we mark her golden ray " Along the dark wood scatter day.

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“ Of moral uses take the strife; “Leave me the elegance of life. “ Whatever charms the ear or eye, “ All beauty and all harmony; “If sweet sensations these produce, “I know they have their moral use. " I know that NATURE's charms can move “ The springs that strike to VIRTUE's love."

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In this dim cave a druid sleeps,

Where stops the passing gale to moan; The rock he hollowed o'er him weeps,

And cold drops wear the fretted stone.

In this dim cave, of different creed,

A hermit's holy ashes rest:
The school-boy finds the frequent bead,

Which many a formal matin blest.

That truant-time full well I know,

When here I brought, in stolen hour, The Druid's magic Misletoe,

The holy hermit's Passion-flower.

The offerings on the mystic stone

Pensive I laid, in thought profound, When from the cave a deepening groan

Issued, and froze me to the ground.

I hear it still-Dost thou not hear?

Does not thy haunted fancy start? The sound still vibrates through mine ear

The horror rushes on my heart.

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