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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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Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, “Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"

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1.OOX, P!'"1 'SUI! JINE 1.1810, 9Y JOHN SHARE, PICALLY

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