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I loved the painter's glorious art, which forms A world like, but more beautiful than this; Just catching nature in her happiest mood! How drank I in fine poetry, which makes The hearing passionate, fill'd with memories Which steal from out the past like rays from clouds! And then the sweet songs of my native vale, Whose sweetness and whose softness call'd to mind The perfume of the flowers, the purity Of the blue sky; oh, how they stirr'd my soul!— Amid the many golden gifts which heaven Has left, like portions of its light, on earth, None hath such influence as music hath. The painter's hues stand visible before us In power and beauty; we can trace the thoughts