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In which the brave and virtuous pined and droop'd In useless indolence, changed for a state Of social love, and joy, and active bliss,— A state of brotherhood,—a state of virtue, So grand, so purified;—O it is excellent! My soul is roused within me at the sound, Like some poor slave, who from a dungeon issues To range with free-born men his native land.

Thou may'st, indeed, my son, redeem'd from thraldom, Become the high compeer of blessed spirits.

The high compeer of such!—These gushing tears, Nature's mysterious tears, will have their way.

To give thy heart relief.

And yet mysterious. Why do we weep At contemplation of exalted virtue? Perhaps in token of the fallen state In which we are, as thrilling sympathy Strangely acknowledges some sight and sound, Connected with a dear and distant home, Albeit the mem'ry hath that link forgotten:— A kind of latent sense of what we were, Or might have been; a deep mysterious token.