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Rh That Force, the dartings from whose eyes not even gods might brave and live, The blasting essence of the skies, proud Jupiter's prerogative— His flashing pinions closely clipt, pent in a cunning-fashioned cage, Of all his flaming glory stript—these men direct his tempered rage: A bondman, at their idlest breath with silent energy he speeds, From dawn of life to hour of death, to execute their slightest needs.

Slow to her couch the moon doth creep, but, going, melts in sparkling tears Of dew, because we may not keep this vision of the future years: Swiftly, before the sunrise gleam, I watch it melting in the morn— The snowy city of my dream, the home of nations yet unborn!