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In the still hour of evening's fall
When conscience holds her solemn courts,
And memory's messengers resort
To all our inmost fold, – to the Soul's recipes all
Unveiling, and exploring – blest
What beyond thought is he who reads
The records fair of spotless deeds
In times departed decaying tomes
Identifier: | JB/110/237/001 "JB/" can not be assigned to a declared number type with value 110.
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110 |
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237 |
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001 |
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collectanea |
2 |
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recto |
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sir john bowring |
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in spanish and english |
36227 |
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