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Poems

By Francis Wrangham
 
 
 

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ON these light strains should rigid Wisdom frown,
And scorn a page not lustrous as her own;
Ah! let her think the Muse with toys like these
Sooth'd cheated care, and taught dull life to please:
Think that the Bard, by fortune's hand confined,
Play'd in a narrow circle of the mind;
Ran all the course assign'd his powers by fate,
And seized the little—when denied the great.
Charles Symmons.