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Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display To shield your poet from the burning day; Calliope, awake the sacred lyre, While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire; The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skies In all their pleasures in my bosom rise. See in the east th' illustrious king of day! His rising radiance drives the shades away; But Oh!
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