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E do not blame you, Walter Bowne,
 * For a variety of reasons;

You’re now the talk of half the town, A man of talent and renown,
 * And will be for perhaps two seasons.

That face of yours has magic in it; Its smile transports us in a minute
 * To wealth and pleasure’s sunny bowers;

And there is terror in its frown, Which, like a mower’s scythe, cuts down
 * Our city’s loveliest flowers.

We therefore do not blame you, sir,
 * Whate’er our cause of grief may be;

And cause enough we have to “stir
 * The very stones to mutiny.”