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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!

ON THE

90

RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'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.ONDON, PUSHED JUNE 1.1810, BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY

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