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Thou, who of pleasure hast prepared
For each an overflowing mass
O bless the brothers of the chase
In the footsteps of their prey
With youthful arrogance
And joyous search of death
Late avengers of the waste ()
'Gainst whom for years in vain
With his club the laborer strives.
But the solitary veil
In thy bright clouds of gold
Arched with winter green
Till the roses wake again
Around the humid hair
Of this thy poet, love!
With thy dawning torch
Lightest thou him
Thro' the by night
Over bottomless paths
And desert field.
Identifier: | JB/110/204/001 "JB/" can not be assigned to a declared number type with value 110.
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110 |
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204 |
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001 |
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collectanea |
4 |
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recto |
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sir john bowring |
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36194 |
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