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To G. Thorn DruryMy youth was ever constant to one dream,Though hope failed oft - so hopeless did it seem,That in the ripeness of my days I mightSomething achieve that should the world requiteFor my existence; for it was a painTo think that I should live and live in vain:And most my thoughts were turned towards the MuseThough long she did my earnest prayers refuse,And left me darkling and despairing; thenBy happy chance there came within my kenA hapless poet, whom - I thank kind fate! -It was my privilege to help instateIn that proud eminence wherein he shinesNow that no more on earth he sadly pines.This was a fortune such as I must everBe thankful for - yet still 'twas my endeavour,With what, I hope, was no unworthy zeal,My life-work with some other deed to seal,And lo! when such a dream might well seem vain,Propitious fate smiled on me once again,And through the mists of time's close woven pallA glint of light on one dim form did fall,Which, as I gazed more earnestly, becameA living soul, discovered by the flameOf glowing inspiration which possessedEven now, as when he lived the poet's breast.
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