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Hen shall the laurel and the vocal string Resume their honours? When shall we behold The tuneful tongue, the Promothéan hand Aspire to ancient praise Alas! how faint, How slow the dawn of beauty and of truth Breaks the reluctant shades of Gothic night Which yet involve the nations! Long they groan'd Beneath the furies of rapacious force; Oft as the gloomy north, with iron-swarms Tempestuous pouring from her frozen caves, Blasted th' Italian shore, and swept the works Of liberty and wisdom down the gulph Of all-devouring night. As long immur'd  In