| 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| But that from cities and from crowds withdrawn, |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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