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Thy dread attendants, all destroying Pow'r, Hurried the infant to his mortal hour. Could'st thou unpitying close those radiant eyes? Or fail'd his artless beauties to surprize? Could not his innocence thy stroke controul, Thy purpose shake, and soften all thy soul?
He wrote little and carefully, nor did he forget his literary ideals even when poverty might have excused hurried productions in the style best calculated to sell. His literary conscience was as strong under the trying circumstances of his debut as later when success brought independence.
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