Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crowned the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry’s holy shade;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor’s heights the expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,...
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Methinks we do as fretful children do, |
The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime In happy climes, where from the genial sun |
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Ye distant spires, ye antique towers |
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