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’Tis a vain and cold invention,
’Tis the spirit’s wrong,
Which to some small mind's pretension
Would subdue that song,
Shrined in manhood’s general heart.
One almighty mind—one only,
Could such strain have sung;
Ever be the laurel lonely,
Where such lyre is hung.
Be the world a thing apart,
Of the glorious island,
Where Ulysses was the king
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