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Circling the base of the poetic mount A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow; Its cold-black waters from oblivion's fount; The vapour poison'd birds that fly too low, Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go. Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet, Beneath the mountain's lofty frowning brow, Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet, A mead of mildest charm delays the unlab'ring feet.
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