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Which of us who beholds the bright surface
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Of this ethereous mould whereon we stand,
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This continent of spacious Heaven, adorned
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With plant, fruit, flower ambrosial, gems, and gold;
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Whose eye so superficially surveys These things,
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as not to mind from whence they grow Deep under ground,
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materials dark and crude, Of spiritous and fiery spume,
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till touched With Heaven's ray,
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and tempered, they shoot forth So beauteous,
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opening to the ambient light?
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These in their dark nativity the deep
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Shall yield us, pregnant with infernal flame;