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Its likeness?—thus we feign we do not feel, Until our feelings are forgotten things, Their nature warp'd in one base selfishness; And generous impulses, and lofty thoughts, Are counted folly, or are not believed: And he who doubts or mocks at excellence (Good that refines our nature, and subdues), Is riveted to earth by sevenfold chains. Oh, never had the poet's lute a hope, An aim so glorious as it now may have, In this our social state, where petty cares And mercenary interests only look Upon the present's littleness, and shrink From the bold future, and the stately past,— Where the smooth surface of society Is polish'd by deceit, and the warm heart