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TO THOMAS STOTHARD, R. A.

THY fancy lives in a delightful sphere,
Stothard,-fit haunt for spirit so benign;

For never since those southern masters fine,
Whose pictured shapes like their own souls appear
Reflected many a way in waters clear,

Has the true woman's gentle mien divine

Looked so, as in those breathing heads of thine,
With parted locks, and simple cheek sincere.
Therefore, against our climate's chilly hold,
Thou hast a nest in sunny glades and bowers;
And there, about thee, never growing old,
Are these fair things, clear as the lily flowers,
Such as great Petrarch loved,-only less cold,
More truly virtuous, and of gladdening powers.

EVERGREENS;

OR

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

POETS OF ANTIQUITY.

HOMER.

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AND now the Greeks, with war-cries full of doom, Flying from underneath the slaughterer Hector, Had reached their ships and the Hellespont; nor yet Had they been able from the press to drag

Achilles' household friend, the dead Patroclus;

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