  I. O that the gentle Muse would stir my brain, And give expressive words for me to pen. Would put in verse great thoughts born to remain, A wondrous poem prized by Englishmen. II. O that before I leave this frail abode, And talents granted me have passed to clay, Would that I, too, could claim that I’d bestowed, Like poets great, a work that lives for aye. T. G. W. H. |
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