SONNET.
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lonely Man he was, from whom these laysFlow'd in his cloistered musings : He in scornHeld them, the unfeeling multitude, who bornFor deeds of nobler purpose, their ripe daysWaste amidst fraudful industry, to raiseInglorious wealth. — But He, life's studious mornGave to the Muse, so best might he adornHis thoughtful brow with never-dying bays.And well the Muse repaid him. She hath givenAn unsubstantial world of richer fee ;High thoughts, unchanging visions, that the leavenOf earth partake not ; — Rich then must he be,Who of this cloudless world, this mortal heaven,Possesseth in his right the Sovereignty.
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