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' POEMS.

I only feek the Defarts rough, Where all alone I love to walk,

And with difcourfe refin’d enough, My Genius and the Mufes talk;

But the converfe moft truly mine, Is the dear memory o f thine.

I?-

Thou may’ft in this Poem find, So full o f liberty and heat,

W hat illuftrious rays have ftiin’d T o enlighten my conceit :

Sometimes penfive, fometimes gay, Juft as that fury does contröul,

And as the objeft I furvey, The notions grow up in my Soul,

And are as unconcern’d and free As the flame which tranfported me.