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"I a your holiday," he said

"Not, I hope, in thought? No, that is well: while you draw you

will not feel lonely You see, I h you

have borne up wonderfully so far I have brought you a book for

evening solace," and he laid on the table a new publication--a poeenuine productions so often vouchsafed to the

fortunate public of those days--the golden age of modern literature

Alas! the readers of our era are less favoured But courage! I

will not pause either to accuse or repine I know poetry is not

dead, nor genius lost; nor has Maained power over either, to

bind or slay: they will both assert their existence, their

presence, their liberty and strength again one day Powerful

angels, safe in heaven! they smile when sordid souls triumph, and

feeble ones weep over their destruction Poetry destroyed? Genius

banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy pron and redeem: and without

their divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell--the

hell of your own es of "Marmion" (for