The trees that shake their foliage to the sky; The wailing voice that fills the cots around; And man, who studies with an aching heart For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere, In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart Those doubts at length will arguments appear! Hence, reader, know the subject of my song A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom, Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along,

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