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PART I.

Come, gentle lyre! sequestered from the world, Tired of its tumults and its pomps and pride, Thee, wonted solace of my careworn heart, Glad I resume: intent not now to strike With hurried hand thy strings, nor thee to make Loud resonant of numbers strange or wild; But, with such mood serene and airy touch As best befit soft-breathing harmonies, To wake thy tones on a familiar theme.

As whom necessity ordains to tread The arid waste where trackless Libyan sands Reflect the sun, seek not in vain to find, At distant intervals, some friendly spots