XX.
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Or, baby, wilt thou think it fitterTo be eloquent and wise,One upon whose lips the airTurns to solemn veritiesFor men to breathe anew, and winA deeper-seated life within?Wilt be a philosopher,By whose voice the earth and skiesShall speak to the unborn?Or a poet, broadly spreadingThe golden immortalitiesOf thy soul on natures lornAnd poor of such, them all to guardFrom their decay,--beneath thy treading,Earth's flowers recovering hues of Eden,--And stars, drawn downward by thy looks,To shine ascendant in thy books?"
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