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LEWESDON HILL.
Adown the valley, wandering sportively.Alas, how soon thy little course will end!How soon thy infant stream shall lose itselfIn the salt mass of waters, ere it growTo name or greatness! Yet it flows alongUntainted with the commerce of the world,Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men;But through sequester'd meads, a little space,Winds secretly, and in its wanton pathMay cheer some drooping flower, or ministerOf its cool water to the thirsty lamb:Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pureAs when it issued from its native hill.
So to thine early grave didst thou run on,Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,Thine innocent and playful infancyWas swallowed up in death, and thy pure spiritIn that illimitable gulf which boundsOur mortal continent. But not there lost,Not there extinguish'd, as some falsely teach,Who can talk much and learnedly of life,

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