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Where no volcano

pours

his fiery flood, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won;

Where to succeed is not to be undone;

A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign!

90

ON THE

RECEIPT OF MY MOTIIER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK,

THE

GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails, else 'how distinct they say,
“ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”

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“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”

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LONDON, PUBLISHED JUNE 1.1810, BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY

Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,
No crested warrior dips his plume in blood;
Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won;

Where to succeed is not to be undone;

A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign!

90

ON THE

RECEIPT OF MY MOTIIER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK,

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”

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