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And Naiads with a hundred names;
And find a Pindus here, and own
The College pump a Helicon;
And search for Gods about the College,
Of which old Homer had no knowledge.
And one may eloquently tell
The triumphs of the Windsor belle,
And sing of Mira's lips and eyes
In oft-repeated ecstasies;
Oh he hath much and wondrous skill
To paint the looks that wound and kill,
As the poor maid is doomed to brook,
Unconsciously, her lover's look,
And smiles, and talks, until the poet
Hears the band play, and does not know it.
To speak the plain and simple truth,
I always was a jesting youth,
A friend to merriment and fun,
No foe to quibble and to pun:
Therefore I cannot feign a tear;
And, now that I have uttered here
A few unrounded accents, bred
More from the heart than from the head,
Honestly felt, and plainly told, -
My lyre is still, my fancy cold.

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SoME years ago, ere Time and Taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way between
St. Mary’s Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the Green,
And guided to the Parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ;
Pair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveller up the path,
Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle;
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlour steps collected,
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,
“Our master knows you; you're expected "

Tp rose the Reverend Doctor Brown,
Up rose the Doctor's winsome marrow,

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