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She deems ungraceful, trifling and absurd, The gayer world that moves round George the Third. Nor thy soft influence will the train refuse, Who court in distant shades the modest Muse, Tho' in a form more pure and more refined, Thy soothing spirit meets the letter'd mind. Not Death itself thine empire can destroy; Tow'rds thee, even then, we turn the languid eye; Still trust in thee to bid our memory bloom, And scatter roses round the silent tomb.