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78 What though thou with all thy dead Scarce can for this fame repay Aught thine own,—oh, rather say, Though thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sunlike soul! As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs; As divinest Shakespeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light Like omniscient power, which he Imaged 'mid mortality; As the love from Petrarch's urn, Yet amid yon hills doth burn, A quenchless lamp, by which the heart Sees things unearthly; so thou art, Mighty spirit: so shall be The city that did refuge thee.

Lo, the sun floats up the sky Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light Seems to level plain and height;