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YNDHAM! 'tis not thy blood, tho' pure it runs Through a long line of glorious ancestry, Percys and Seymours, Britain's boasted sons, Who trust the honors of their race to thee:

'Tis not thy splendid domes, where Science loves To touch the canvas, and the bust to raise; Thy rich domains, fair fields, and spreading groves; 'Tis not all these the Muse delights to praise:

In birth, and wealth, and honours, great thou art! But nobler in thy independent mind; And in that liberal hand and feeling heart Given thee by Heaven—a blessing to mankind! Unworthy oft may titled fortune be; A soul like thineis true Nobility!