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Of power to bid the storm of passion roll, Or touch with sweetest tenderness the soul. He spake in vain ; — ti I, with his latest breath, He broke the spell of Africa in death.

The Muse to whom the lyre and lute belong, Whose S'ing of freedom is her noblest song, ' The lyre with awful indignation swept. O'er the sweet lute in silent sorrow wept, —When Albion'is crimes drew thunder from her

tongue, — When x\fi ie's woes o'erwhelmM her while she sung. Lamented Cowpcr ! in thy pith I tread ; O ! that on me were thy meek spirit shed ! The woes that wring my bosom once were thine ; Be all thy virtues, all thy genius mine ! Peace to thy soul ! thy God thy portion be ; And in his presence may I rest with thee !

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