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H! where are now the lights that shed
 * A lustre o’er my darkened hours,

The priests of pleasure’s fane, who spread, Each night beneath my weary head,
 * Endymion’s moonlight couch of flowers?

No more in chains of music bound,
 * I listen to those airy reels,

When quavering Philipps cuts around Fantastic pigeon-wings of sound, Like Byrne,67 who, without touching ground,
 * Eleven times can cross his heels.

No longer Cooper’s tongue of tongues, Pumps thunder from his stormy lungs;
 * Turner68 has shut his classic pages,

Southward his face Magenis68 turns, And for the halls of Congress spurns
 * The mansion of our civic sages.