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Wi. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky, And the strange constellations which the Muse

O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse :

Wii.

I saw or dream'd of such,--but let them go.-
They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams;
And whatsoe'er they were-are now but so :
I could replace them if I would ; still teems
My mind with many a form which aptly seems
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ;
Let these too go—for waking Reason deems
Such over-weening phantasies unsound,

And other voices speak, and other sights surround.

VIii.

I’ve taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise;
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find
A country with—ay, or without mankind;
Yet was I born where men are proud to be,

Not without cause ; and should I leave behind
The inviolate island of the sage and free,
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,

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Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay
My ashes in a soil which is not mine,
My spirit shall resume it—if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine
My hopes of being remember'd in my line
With my land's language: if too fond and far
These aspirations in their scope incline,—
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar

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My name from out the temple where the dead Are honour’d by the nations—let it be— And light the laurels on a loftier head And be the Spartan's epitaph on me— “Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.”" Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such

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The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renew’d, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood | St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood" Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower.

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Her very by-word sprung from victory,
The “Planter of the Lion,” which through fire
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea;
Though making many slaves, herself still free,
And Europe's bulwark gainst the Ottomite ;
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ; Vouch it, ye
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight !
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight.

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