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Rh

Would fain in other cups infuse His own delights, and fondly woos The world, without that worldliness Which wanting, there is no success; Hears his song sink unmark'd away,— Swanlike his soul sinks with its lay,— Lifts to his native heaven his eyes, Turns to the earth, despairs and dies; Leaving a memory whose reward Might lesson many a future bard, Or, harder still, a song whose fame Has long outlived its minstrel's name. "Oh, must this be!" said, "Thus perish quite the gifted dead! How many a wild and touching song To my own native vales belong,