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And from their fate thy race shall nobler grow,
As trees shoot upward that are prun'd below:
Or, as old Thames, borne down with decent pride,
Sees his young streams go murmuring by his side;
Though some, by art cut off, no longer run,
And some are lost beneath the summer's sun;
Yet the strong stream moves on, and as it moves,
Its power increases, and its use improves;
While plenty round its spacious waves bestow,
Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow.
FINIS.
