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172 And changed thy dome of painted bricks And porter-casks and politics,
 * Into a green Arcadian vale,

With Stephen Allen10 for its lark, Ben Bailey’s voice its watch-dog’s bark,
 * And John Targee its nightingale.

These, and the other , Will live a thousand years or more— If the world lasts so long. For me, I rhyme not for posterity, Though pleasant to my heirs might be
 * The incense of its praise,

When I, their ancestor, have gone, And paid the debt, the only one
 * A poet ever pays.

But many are my years, and few Are left me ere night’s holy dew, And sorrow’s holier tears, will keep The grass green where in death I sleep.

And when that grass is green above me, And those who bless me now and love me
 * Are sleeping by my side,

Will it avail me aught that men Tell to the world with lip and pen
 * That once I lived and died?

No: if a garland for my brow Is growing, let me have it now,