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Oh! not myself,— for what am I?— The worthless and the weak, Whose every thought of self should raise A blush to burn my cheek.

But song has touch'd my lips with fire, And made my heart a shrine; For what, although alloy'd, debased, Is in itself divine.

I am myself but a vile link Amid life's weary chain; But I have spoken hallow'd words, Oh do not say in vain!