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With all its kind affections' early flow, Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat, At least for others;—tis the poet's gift To melt these frozen waters into tears, By sympathy with sorrows not our own, By wakening memory with those mournful notes, Whose music is the thoughts of early years, When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore The sweetness and the freshness of their morn. Young poet, if thy dreams have not such hope To purify, refine, exalt, subdue, To touch the selfish, and to shame the vain Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness, Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise, Lofty and pure, and meant for general good; If thou hast not some power that may direct