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SPEAK NO ILL OF POETRY.
��MORN on her rosy couch awoke,
Enchantment led the hour, And mirth and music drank the dews
That freshen Beauty's flower ; When from her bower of deep delight,
I heard a young girl sing, " O, speak no ill of poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing."
The sun in noon-day heat rose high,
And on with heaving hreast, I saw a weary pilgrim toil,
Unpitied and unblest ; Yet still in trembling measures flow'd
Forth from a broken string, " O, speak no ill of poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing."
Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, 'Mid agony severe,
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