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LEWESDON HILL.
27
With ceaseless violence; nor overpass,Till all the creatures of this nether worldAre one wide quarry: following dark behind,The cormorant Oblivion swallows upThe carcasses that Time has made his prey.
But, hark! the village clock strikes nine; the chimesMerrily follow, tuneful to the senseOf the pleased clown attentive, while they makeFalse-measured melody on crazy bells.O wondrous Power of modulated sound!Which like the air (whose all-obedient shapeThou makest thy slave) canst subtilly pervadeThe yielded avenues of sense, unlockThe close affections, by some fairy pathWinning an easy way through every ear,And with thine unsubstantial qualityHolding in mighty chains the hearts of all;All, but some cold and sullen-temper'd spirits,Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.
Yet what is music, and the blended powerOf voice with instruments of wind and string?

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