IV.
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ow many bards gild the lapses of time!A few of them have ever been the foodOf my delighted fancy,--I could broodOver their beauties, earthly, or sublime:And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,These will in throngs before my mind intrude:But no confusion, no disturbance rudeDo they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;The songs of birds--the whisp'ring of the leaves--The voice of waters--the great bell that heavesWith solemn sound,--and thousand others more,That distance of recognizance bereaves,Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
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