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Southton. June 1905.


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Round Thomson's sacred brows the laurell's wreath;

Who claims the high-wrought inlogies which breathe Such thoughts, such words as his; but, be it mine

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And sing of her, who loves thy tuneful song,
And wills thee fairest of the clasore flowers.
By taste, by virtue led, the quits the crowd.

Infatuate, who love the varnisticky take

It guilt and horror; and in the lonely vale
Thoughtful retirer, where nature's beauties charm,

Where straine like thine her wakenin

wakening wptures warm,

trains such as dark oblivion's veel stiahl

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