OFT have I caught, upon a fitful breeze,
Fragments of far-off
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O NOW that the genius of Bewick were mine, And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne.
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ERE the Brothers through the gateway Issued forth with old and young,
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AN age hath been when Earth was proud Of lustre too intense
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HAIL, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night! Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude
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DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord! Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
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WITHIN our happy Castle there dwelt One Whom without blame I may not overlook;
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PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
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"Call up him who left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold."
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"BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed an angry Voice,
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"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my Tale;
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HUMANITY, delighting to behold A fond reflection of her own decay,
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FROM Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled;
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IF Nature, for a favourite child, In thee hath tempered so her clay,
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IT was a 'moral' end for which they fought; Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
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(The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese) YE Storms, resound the praises of your King!
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LET thy wheel-barrow alone-- Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
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HIGH is our calling, Friend!--Creative Art (Whether the instrument of words she use,
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WHEN, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn The tidings past of servitude repealed,
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A PLAGUE on your languages, German and Norse! Let me have the song of the kettle;
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IN this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;
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I AM not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk.--
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INMATE of a mountain-dwelling, Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed
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BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made That work a living landscape fair and bright;
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TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
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LIE here, without a record of thy worth, Beneath a covering of the common earth!
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WHEN, to the attractions of the busy world, Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
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FAR from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,
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OAK of Guernica! Tree of holier power Than that which in Dodona did enshrine
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