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 * Come, dear companions of my youthful hour,
 * Fill my fond breast with your majestic themes;
 * Meet me again on hill, by stream, or bower,
 * And bathe my fancy in the bliss of dreams.
 * Vain wish ! no more the star of Fancy gleams;
 * They with becoming scorn reject thy prayer:
 * Nor will they haunt thy bower, or bless thy streams,
 * No more to thy deserted cell repair:—

Go, court the world," they cry, "thou art not worth our care."


 * Bustle and hurry, noise and thrall they hate,
 * And plodding Method with her leaden rule;
 * And all that swells the' unwieldy pomp of state,
 * And all that binds to earth the golden fool;
 * And creeping Labour with his patient tool:
 * Free like the birds they wander unconfined,
 * Nor dip their wings in Lucre's muddy pool;
 * Business they hate, in crowded nook enshrined,

That spins her dirty web, and clouds the' ethereal mind.