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From yonder realms of empyrean day
and undiscover'd clime.
They send of tender sympathy
First the genuine ardour stole.
“ Ye brown o'er-arching groves,
That Contemplation loves,
Oft at the blush of dawn
I trod your level lawn, Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly, With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy.”
But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth
With solemn steps and slow,
From haughty Gallia torn,
And either Henry there,
That broke the bonds of Rome.
Their human passions now no more,
All that on Granta's fruitful plain
Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd,
And thus they speak in soft accord
“What is grandeur, what is power ?
Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud
The venerable Marg’ret see ! “Welcome, my noble son (she cries aloud),
To this, thy kindred train, and me :
Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,