  In memory of other days, Dear critic, when your whispered praise Cheered on the limping pen. How short, how sweet those younger hours, How bright our suns, how few our showers, Alas, we knew not then! If but, long leagues across the seas, The trivial charm of rhymes like these Shall serve to link us twain An instant in the olden spell That once we knew and loved so well, I have not worked in vain! |
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