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'Tis true, Satyrane! (So call him, for so mingling Blame with Praise And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, Masking his birth-name, wont to character His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,) 'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths And honoring with religious love the Great Of elder times, he hated to excess, With an unquiet and intolerant scorn, The hollow puppets of an hollow Age, Ever idolatrous, and changing ever Its worthless Idols! Learning, Power, and Time, (Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, tis true, Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, Even to the gates and inlets of his life! But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm, And with a natural gladness, he maintained Errata