TO A FRIEND.
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ho prop, thou ask’st, in these bad days, my mind?--He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,[1]And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,That halting slave, who in NicopolisTaught Arrian, when Vespasian’s brutal sonCleared Rome of what most shamed him. But be his My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul,From first youth tested up to extreme old age,Business could not make dull, nor passion wild; Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole;The mellow glory of the Attic stage,Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.
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