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3
MY FIRST AND LAST STROPHE.
On being asked to write an Ode by a Friend.
Dear friend! I had commenced the ‘soaring ode’—But oh! I felt, despite thy flattering talk,
Like some poor sparrow, captured by a hawk,
And borne on alien wings from his abode
Beneath the sheltering eaves. It is an art
Beyond my scope and pitch; I stare and pant
In this Pindaric clutch, and feel my want
Of force; henceforth I shall grow faint at heart
To see a falcon tower. Let lyrics be;
For, though I do not love to say thee nay,
For my poor muse it is too late a day
To mell with strophe and antistrophe!
When odes are paramount, 'tis best for me
To house and peep, lest I be swooped away.
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