NOT that thy name, illustrious dome, recalls |
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The pomp of chivalry in banner'd halls, |
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The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sights |
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Of heralds, trophies, steeds, and crested knights; |
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Not that young Surrey there beguil'd the hour |
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With "eyes upturn'd unto the maiden's tower;" |
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Oh! not for these, the muse officious brings |
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Her gratulations to the best of Kings; |
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But that from cities and from crowds withdrawn, |
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Calm peace may meet him on the twilight lawn — |
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That here, among these grey primeval trees, |
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He may inhale health's animating breeze — |
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That these old oaks, which far their shadow cast, |
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May sooth him, while they whisper of the past; |
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And when from that proud Terrace he surveys |
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Slow Thames devolving his majestic maze, |
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(Now lost on the horizon's verge, now seen |
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Winding through lawns, and woods, and pastures green) |
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