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76 Till his awed branches trembled, leaf and limb,
 * And grouped her churchyard shapes of fantasie

Round merry moonlight’s meadow-fountain’s brim,
 * And mocking for a space the dread decree,

Brought back to dead, cold lips the parted breath, And changed to banquet-board the bier of death,

None knew—except a patient, precious few,
 * Who’ve read the folios of one ,

A chronicler of tales more strange than true,
 * New-England’s chaplain, and her history’s father;

A second Monmouth’s, a new
 * , their laurelled victor rather,

For in one art he soars above them high: The Greek or Welshman does not always lie.

Know ye the venerable ? He
 * Was the first publisher’s tourist on this station;

The first who made, by labelling earth and sea,
 * A huge book, and a handsome speculation:

And ours was then a land of mystery,
 * Fit theme for poetry’s exaggeration,

The wildest wonder of the month; and there He wandered freely, like a bird or bear,