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Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; '

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ?

abode, 3 Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords

Apician table, and Horati.ın ode, To ploughsbares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes, | To rule a people who will not be ruled, Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ? Than follow headlong in the fatal route,

Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure For thrones ; the table secs thee better placed ; With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure : A mild Epicurean, form’d, at best, Her soil is fertile, but she fceds no foe;

To be a kind host and as good a guest, Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;

To talk of letters, and to know by heart And wouldist thou furnish them with fresher prey ? One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art; Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey:

A scholar always, now and then a wit, I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun

And gentle when digestion may permit;
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun; But not to govern lands enslaved or free;
But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander

The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.
Rather a worm than such an Alexander !
Be slaves wbo will, the cynic shall be free ;

His tub hath tougher walls than Sinopé :

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase Still will he hold his lantern up to scan

From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? The face of nonarchs for an “ honest man.

“ Arts - arms and George — and glory — and the

isles — XI.

And happy Britain ---Wealtb—and Freedom's smilesAnd what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land

White cliffs, that held Invasion far aloof Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band

Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers

Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, And tribune, which each orator first clambers

That nose, the hook where he suspends the world ! 4 Before he finds a voice, and when 't is found,

And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush! not yet Hears “ the lie" echo for his answer round ?

A syllable of imposts or of debt). Our British Commons sometimes deign to “ hcar !”

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, A Gallic senate hath more tongue than hear;

Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other dayEven Constant, their sole master of debate,

And · pilots who have weather'd every storm'sMust fight next day his speech to vindicate.

(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name ReBut this costs little to true Franks, who had rather

form)." Combat than listen, were it to their father.

These are the themes thus sung so oft before, What is the simple standing of a shot,

Methinks we need not sing them any more ; To listening long, and interrupting not ?

Found in so many volumes far and near, Though this was not the method of old Rome,

There's no occasion you should find them here. When Tully fulmined o'er cach vocal dome,

Yet something may remain perchance to chime Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction,

With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. In saying eloquence meant “ Action, action!”

Even this thy geniu, Canning ! may permit,

Who, bred a statesmen, still wast born a wit,
But where's the monarch ? hath he dined ? or yet And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ?

To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; Have revolutionary patés risen,

Our last, our best, our only orator, And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ?

Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more : Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops ? Nay, not so much; - they hate thee, man, because Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups ? Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. Have Carbonaro o cooks not carbonadoed

The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, Each course enough ? or doctors dire discriaded And where he leads the duteous pack will follow; Repletion ? Ah! in thy dejected looks

But not for love mistake their yelling cry; I read all France's treason in her cooks !

Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say,

Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, Desirable to be the Desiré ? ”

A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.


Great by courtesy), when surrounded by the Mussulmans on 3. (Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire- the residence of Louis the banks of the river Pruth.

xvill., during the latter years of the Emigration.] (" Eight thousand men had to Asturias march'd

"Naso suspendit adunco."- Horace. Beneath Count Julian's banner; the remains

The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious Of that brave army which in Africa

to his acquaintance. So well against the Mussulman made head,

$(" The Pilot that weather'd the storm " is the burthen Till sense of injuries insupportable,

of a song, in honour of Pitt, by Mr. Canning.) And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrew Their leader's noble spirit. To revenge

6 [“ I have never heard any one who fulfilled my ideal of an

orator. Grattan would have been near it, but for his harle. His quarrel, twice that number left their bones, Slain in uunatural battle on the field

quin delivery. Pitt I never heard - Fox but once: and then

he struck me as a debater, which to me seems as different Of Xeres, where the sceptre from the Goths By righteous Hlcaren was reft."-Southcy's Roderick.) Grey is great, but it is not oratory;

from an orator as an improvisatore or a versitier from a poet.

Canning is sometimes ? [According to Botta, the Neapolitan republicans who,

very like one. Whitbread was the Demosthenes of ball taste during the reign of King Joachim, ted to the recesses of the

and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. Holland is Abruzzi, and there formed a secret confederacy, were the inpressive from sense and sincerity. Burdett is sweet and first that assumed the designation, since familiar all over silvery as Delial himself, and, I think, the greatest favourite Italy, of“ Carbonari" (colliers).]

in landemonium." - Byron Diary, 1821.]

Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,

They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 1

meant The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last

To die for England - why then live ? - for rent ! To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast The peace has made one general malcontent With his great self and rider in the mud;

Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! But what of that? the animal shows blood.

Their love of country, millions all mis-spent,

How reconcile ? by reconciling rent!

And will they not repay the treasures lent ?
Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen

No: down with every thing, and up with rent! Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen ?

Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, The last to bid the cry of warfare cease,

Being, end, aim, religion - rent, rent, rent ! The first to make a malady of peace.

Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess; For what were all these country patriots born ?

Thou shouldst have gotten more, or caten less ; To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ?

Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall,

Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all.

Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, And must ye fall with every ear of grain ?

And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar! Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ?

What! would they spread their earthquake even o'er He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices

cash ? Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your

And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? prices;

So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, He amplified to every lord's content

And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital ? The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent.

Lo! Mother Church, while all religion writhes, Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,

Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes; And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ?

The prelates go to — where the saints have gone, Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ?

And proud pluralities subside to one ; The man was worth much more upon his throne.

Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,

Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ;

Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,

Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. And acres told upon the appointed day.

And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, But where is now the goodly audit ale ?

And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail ?

“ Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;" The farm which never yet was left on hand ?

Admire their patience through each sacrifice, The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ?

Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, The impatient hope of the expiring lease ?

The price of taxes and of homicide; The doubling rental ? What an evil's peace !

Admire their justice, which would fain deny In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill,

The debt of nations :- pray who made it high?
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill;
The landed interest (you may understand

The phrase much better leaving out the land)- Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks,
The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks,
For fear that plenty should attain the poor.

Where ·Midas might again his wish behold
Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes,

In real paper or imagined gold. Or else the ministry will lose their votes,

That magic palace of Alcina shows And patriotism, so delicately nice,

More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, Her loaves will lower to the market price ;

Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore, For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. Are gone - their oren closed, their ocean dry, There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the And nought remains of all the millions spent,

stake, Exccpting to grow moderate and content.

And the world trembles to bid brokers break. They who are not so, had their turn- and turn How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines, About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;

Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines ; Now let their virtue be its own reward,

No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, And share the blessings which themselves prepared. Nor (save in paper shekels) rearly money : See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,

But let us not to own the truth refuse, Farmers of war, dictators of the farm;

Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, Those parted with their teeth to good King John, Their fields manured by gore of other lands;

And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own; Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent

All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, Their brethren out to battle - why? for rent ! And waft a loan “ from Indus to the pole.” Year after year they voted cent. per cent., (reat! | The banker - broker - baron ?- brethren, speci Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need.

(On the suicide of Lord Londouderry, in August, 1822, Mr. Canning, who had prepared to sail for India as Governor. General, was made Secretary of State for Foreign Affurs, - not much. it was alleged, to the personal satisfaction of George the Fourth, or of the high Tories in the cabinet. He lived to verify some of the predictions of the poet - to

abandon the foreign policy of his predecessor — to break up the Tory party by a coalition with the Whigs- and to prepare the way for Rcform in Parliament.)

? (The head of the illustrious house of Montmorenci has usually been designated "le premier haron Chrétien;" his ancestor having, it is supposed, been the first noble convert


Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less
Fresh speculations follow cach success ;
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain
Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain.
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march;
'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch.
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command
In every realm their scripture-promised land:
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old :
Two Jews - but not Samaritans direct
The world, with all the spirit of their sect.
What is the happiness of earth to them ?
A congress forms their “ New Jerusalem,"
Where baronies and orders both invite -
Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ?
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine,
Who spit not“ on their Jewish gaberdine,"
But honour them as portion of the show -
(Where now, oh pope ! is thy forsaken toe ?
Could it not favour Judah with some kicks?
Or has it ceased to “ kick against the pricks ? ”).
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh,
To cut from nations' hearts their “ pound of flesh."

Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite
All that's incongruous, all that 's opposite.
I speak not of the Sovereigns — they're alike,
A common coin as ever mint could strike :
But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings,
Have more of motley than their heavy kings.
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine,
While Europe wonders at the vast design :
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite,
Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight;
There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ; 1
And subtle Greeks 2 intrigue for stupid Tartars ;
There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters, 9
Turns a diplomatist of great éclat,
To furnish articles for the “ Débats ; ”
Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure
As his dismissal in the “ Moniteur."
Alas! how could his cabinet thus err ?
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister ?
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again,
“ Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.” 4

Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos
The averted eye of the reluctant muse.
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride,
The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride ;

The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
The young Astyanax of modern Troy ;)
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen ;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare
A daughter ? What did France's widow there ?
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave,
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign,
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ;
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries;
What though she share no more, and shared in vain,
A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne,
Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas ;
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,
Where Parma views the traveller resort,
To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn
Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn -
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time
To chill in their inhospitable clime;
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; -
But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould ;)
She comes ! — the Andromache (but not Racine's,
Nor Homer's,) — Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans !
Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo,
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre througb,
Is offer'd and accepted ! Could a slave
Do more? or less ? — and he in his new grave!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,
And the ex-empress grows as ex a wife !
So much for human ties in royal breasts !
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ?

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home,
And sketch the group — the picture's yet to come.
My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt,
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While throng’d the chiefs of every Highland clan
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman !
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar,
While all the Common Council cry “ Claymore !"
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, 7
She burst into a laughter so extreme,
That I awoke — and lo! it was no dream!

Here, reader, will we pause: – if there's no harm in This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second “ Carmen." " And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines,

Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines,
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain,

Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."] 5 [Napoleon François Charles Joseph, Duke of Reichstadt, died at the palace of Schönbrunn, July 22. 1832, having just attained his twenty-first year.]

6 [Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second husband to Maria-Louisa, had but one eye. The count died in 1831. See antè, p. 461.)

7 [George the Fourth is said to have been somewhat annoyed, on entering the levee-room at Holyrood (Aug. 1822) in full Stuart tartan, to see only one figure similarly attired (and of similar bulk) – that of Sir Willian Curtis. The city knight had every thing complete - even the Ánije stuck it the garter. He asked the King, if he did not think him well dressed. “ Yes !” replied his Majesty, "only you have no spoon in your hose." "The devourer of turtle had a fine engraving executed of himself in his Celtic attire.]

to Christianity in France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to the well-known joke of Talleyrand, who, meeting the Duke of Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon after the latter had been ennobled by the Emperor of Austria, is said to have begged leave to present M. le premier baron Juif to M. le premier baron Chrétien.]

| Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the au. thor in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign : “Ah ! Monsieur C., are you related to that Chateaubriand who-who- who has written something ?" (écrit quelque chose!) It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy.

? [Count Capo d'Istrias - afterwards President of Greece. The count was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother and son of a Mainote chief whom he had imprisoned.]

3 [The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval.]
* (From Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough :-

Occasional Pieces.





Rocks rise, and rivers roll between

The spot which passion blest;
Yet, Mary 4, all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,

To me in smiles display'd;
Till slow disease resigns bis prey
To Death, the parent of decay,

Thine image cannot fade.

And thou, my Friend 5! whose gentle love,

Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above

Description's power of words !
Still near my breast thy gift I wear
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot ;

Let Pride alone condemn !

All, all is dark and cheerless now!

No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,

Can bid Life's pulses beat :
Not e'en the hope of future fame,
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race, -
To humble in the dust my face,

And mingle with the dead.

Adieu, thou Hill !! where early joy

Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy

With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes ;

No more through Ida's paths we stray ;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell

Unconscious of the day.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,

Ye spircs of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,

And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,

On Cama's verdant margin placec,
Adieu ! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine,

These scenes must be effaced. Adieu, ye moumtains of the clime

Where grew my youthful years ;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime

His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,

With sons of pride to roam ?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear ware,

To seek a Sotheron home ?
Hall of my Sires ! a long farewell —

Yet why to thee adieu ?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,

Thy towers my tomb will view :
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall 2

Forgets its wonted simple note -
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,

In dying strains may float.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,

While yet I linger here,
Adieu ! you are not now forgot,

To retrospection dear.
Streamlet 3 ! along whose rippling surge,
My youthful limbs were wont to urge

At noontide heat their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,

Deprived of active force.
And shall I here forget the scene,

Still nearest to my breast ?

Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart;

On him who gains thy praise, Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,

Consumed in Glory's blaze; But me she beckons from the carth, My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,

My life a short and vulgar dream; Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, My hopes recline within a shroud,

My fate is Lethe's stream.

When I repose beneath the sod,

Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,

Where now my head must lay;
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,

By nightly skies, and stornis alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep

Which hideg a name unknown.

Forget this world, my restless sprite,

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight,

If errors are forgiven. To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne ;

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I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,

Yet thought that a day's separation was long: When we met, I determined again to suspect you —

Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. I swore, in a transport of young indignation,

With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you: I saw you - my anger became admiration;

And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention !

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you; At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!

January 16. 1807. [First published, 1832.)

TO THE SAME. OH, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed

The heart which adores you should wish to dissever; Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed ;

To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone

Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown,

Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined,

The rage of the tempest united must weather, My love and my life were by nature design'd

To flourish alike, or to perish together. Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed,

Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are center'd in you.

1807. [First published, 1832.]

TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, ""SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, ' AND YET NO TEAR.'" Thy verse is “ sad " enough, no doubt :

A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,

Unless for thee we weep in pity.
Yet there is one I pity more ;

And much, alas ! I think he needs it:
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,

May once be read — but never after :
Yet their effect's by no means tragic,

Although by far too dull for laughter.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,

And of no common pang complain -
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.

March 8. 1807. (First published, 1832.]


To Him address thy trembling prayer :
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,

Although his meanest care.
Father of Light! to Thee I call,

My soul is dark within:
'Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,

Avert the death of sin.
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;
And, since I soon must cease to live,
Instruct me how to die.

1807. (First published, 1832.)

AH, heedless girl! why thus disclose

What ne'er was meant for other ears:
Why thus destroy thine own repose,

And dig the source of future tears ?
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,

While lurking envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said

Of those who spoke but to beguile.
Vain girl ! thy ling'ring woes are nigh,

If thou believ'st what striplings say:
Oh, from the deep temptation fly,

Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey.
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,

The words man utters to deceive ?
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,

If thou canst venture to believe.
While now amongst thy female peers

Thou tell'st again the soothing tale,
Canst thou not mark the rising sneers

Duplicity in vain would veil ?
These tales in secret silence hush,

Nor make thyself the public gaze :
What modest maid without a blush

Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ?
Will not the laughing boy despise

Her who relates each fond conceit-
Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,

Yet cannot see the slight deceit ?
For she who takes a soft delight

These amorous nothings in revealing,
Must credit all we say or write,

While vanity prevents concealing.
Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign!

No jealousy bids me reprove :
One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.

January 15. 1807. [First published, 1832.)


Oh, Anne ! your offences to me have been grievous; I thought from my wrath no atonement could save

you; But woman is made to command and deceive us

I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.

In one who felt as once he felt,

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same.

M m 4

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