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“Of perfect light immortal—Wainly 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.

“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

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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.

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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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