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The poetical works of Samuel Rogers

with a memoir by Edward Bell

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 VIII. 
 IX. 
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 XI. 
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What tho' no marble breathes, no canvass glows,
From every point a ray of genius flows!
Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill,
That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will;
And cheaply circulates, thro' distant climes,
The fairest relics of the purest times.
Here from the mould to conscious being start
Those finer forms, the miracles of art;
Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine,
That slept for ages in a second mine;
And here the faithful graver dares to trace
A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace!

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Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls;
And my low roof the Vatican recalls!