With passions wild, will calmly show
How soon we may their ills remove,
And masters of their madness grow.
Some twenty years I think are gone;—
(Time flies, I know not how, away;)—
The sun upon no happier shone,
Nor prouder man, than Eustace Grey.
Ask where you would, and all would say,
The man admired and praised of all,
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