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more my harp awakens; once again, Tho' all unworthy be my hand to twine Th' etherial blossomings of poetry, I would call forth its numbers, yet would feel Its music fall like sunlight on my soul. Oh, lovely phantom! tho' they say that thou Art but a light to lead my steps aside; That thy romance is but a wayward dream; That few are thy true votaries, and they Drain to the dregs the cup of bitterness;