And o’er the changing aspect flits,
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink:
My thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell.
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In law an infant, and in years a boy,
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Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;
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A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ÆNEID, LIB. IX
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Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
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In this book a traveller had written:
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