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Over towers and turrets, sailing in light, And gardens, that seem'd to rejoice in night; When the pealing thunder roll'd on the main, And the town was awaked by the fiery rain, And the cry of battle, for blood and fame Follow'd wherever that war-ship came. I heard, on the night-wind borne along, Sweet as before, that gifted song. But look'd I now on the minstrel's thought— There many an inward sorrow wrought, Work of wasting; pining for fame, Yet loathing the gift of an empty name; Hope, whose promise was little worth, And Genius, tainted with cares of earth. I have watch'd the young,—there are thorns with their bloom; The gay,—but their inward heart was gloom;