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et, when I muse on what life is, I seemRather to patience prompted, than that proudProspect of hope which France proclaims so loud,--France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme; Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream,Is on all sides o’ershadowed by the highUno’erleaped mountains of necessity,Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. Nor will that day dawn at a human nod,When, bursting through the network superposedBy selfish occupation,--plot and plan, Lust, avarice, envy,--liberated man,All difference with his fellow-mortal closed,Shall be left standing face to face with God.
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