"What paints the poet, is our station here,
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Where we like ghosts and flitting shades appear:
This is the hell he sings, and here we meet,
And former deeds to new-made friends repeat;
Heroic deeds, which here obtain us fame,
And are in fact the causes why we came.
Yes! this dim region is old Homer's hell,
Abate but groves and meads of asphodel.
"Here, when a stranger from your world we spy,