| Though humble the banquet to which I invite thee
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| Thou’lt find there the best a poor bard can command;
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| Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee
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| And Love serve the feast with her own willing hand
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| Though Fortune may seem to have turn’d from the dwelling
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| Of her thou regardest her favouring ray
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| Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling
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| Which, proudly she feels, hath ennobled her way
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| It’s that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
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| Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves
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| Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion
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| Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves
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| 'Tis this makes the pride of her humble retreat
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| And with this, though of all other treasures bereaved
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| The breeze of her garden to her is more sweet
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| Than the costliest incense that Pomp e’er received
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| Then, come, if a board so untempting hath power
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| To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
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| And there’s one, long the light of the bard’s happy bower
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| Who, smiling will blend his bright welcome with mine
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| Though humble the banquet to which I invite thee
|
| Thou’lt find there the best a poor bard can command;
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| Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee
|
| And Love serve the feast with her own willing hand
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| And Love serve the feast with her own willing hand
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| Oh, Love serve the feast with her own willing hand |