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[41]

XII.

What lack of goodly company,
     When masters of the ancient lyre
Obey my call, and trace for me
     Their words of mingled tears and fire!
I talk with Bacon, grave and wise,
     I read the world with Pascal's eyes;
And priest and sage, with solemn brows austere,
     And poets, garland-bound, the Lords of Thought, draw near.

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Bacon (1)
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