And all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon,
Dipping his fiery Tresses in the Stream
Of Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve,
Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought,
And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns,
From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way,
Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth,
Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career.
Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame,
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