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builds on Nature who to genuine Art Entrusts his bold foundation: not alone Is the soil Earth, but whatsoe'er is grown Out of the genial vigour of Earth's heart: The loftiest Alp which scruples not to dart Into another world its flying cone Springs from the humble Earth and is her own; When the pine breaks the sod, a mother's smart, Nought more, she feels—'tis part of her, although The currents of a hundred feet above Toss its wild leaves that never can be still; Yet doth she feed it with a mother's love, And there the heaven-instructed birds bestow Their pensile tenements and fear no ill.