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poet am I, or would be; And must I therefore to the grave go down Without my singing-honour and my crown? What matter?—if the angel quire for me Are weaving amaranths with melody? Yet could I (so fiends whisper) charm the frown From Fame's cold brow, and pluck a chaplet down, If I would bow to deft hypocrisy. But thanks to Thee, O Lord, who dost enslave The conquered ill to serve against its kind, Me from this trial even my pride might save; I scorn in any lie to be confined. And Truth is royal and sets free;—the grave Hath but the gaoler's privilege—to bind.