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 And these are innocent thoughts—a man may sit Upon a bright throne of his own creation: Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flit Around the many, whose exalted station Has been attained by means 'twere pain to hint on, Just for the rhyme's sake—instance Mr..

He struggled hard, but not in vain, and breathes The mountain air at last; but there are others Who strove, like him, to win the glittering wreaths Of power, his early partisans and brothers, That linger yet in dust from whence they sprung, Unhonored and unpaid, though, luckily, unhung.

'Twas theirs to fill with gas the huge balloon Of party; and they hoped, when it arose, To soar like eagles in the blaze of noon, Above the gaping crowd of friends and foes. Alas! like Guillé's car, it soared without them, And left them with a mob to jeer and flout them.

Though Fanny's moonlight dreams were sweet as those I've dwelt so long upon—they were more stable;