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Afar all beautiful and bright, And finds it only formed of tears. Ay, let him reach the goal, let fame Pour glory's sunlight on his name, Let his songs be on every tongue, And wealth and honours round him flung: Then let him show his secret thought, Will it not own them dearly bought? See him in weariness fling down The golden harp, the violet crown; And sigh for all the toil, the care, The wrong that he has had to bear; Then wish the treasures of his lute Had been, like his own feelings, mute, And curse the hour when that he gave To sight that wealth, his lord and slave.