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But he, her fears to cease,

Such music, as 'tis said,
Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace;

Before was never made,
She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding But when of old the sons of morning sung,
Down through the turning sphere,

While the Creator great
His ready harbinger,

His constellations set, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; And the well-balanc'd world on hinges hung, And, waving wide her myrtle wand,

And cast the dark foundations deep, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. And bid the weltering waves their cozy channel keep. No war or battle's sound,

Ring out, ye crystal spheres,
Was heard the world around :

Once bless our human ears,
The idle spear and shield were high up hung; If ye have power to touch our senses so;
The hooked chariot stood

And let your silver chime
Unstaind with hostile blood;

Move in melodious time; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;

And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow; And kings sat still with awful eye,

And, with your ninefold harmony, As if they surely knew their sov’reign lord was by. Make up full concert to the angelic symphony. But peaceful was the night,

For, if such holy song Wherein the Prince of Light

Enwrap our fancy long, His reign of peace upon the earth began :

Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; The winds, with wonder whist,

And speckled Vanity Smoothly the waters kiss'd,

Will sicken soon and die, Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,

And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;

And Hell itself will pass away, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. The stars, with deep amaze,

Yea, Truth and Justice then Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,

Will down return to men, Bending one way their precious influence;

Orb’d in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, And will not take their flight,

Mercy will sit between, For all the morning light,

Thron'd in celestial sheen, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;

With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; But in their glimmering orbs did glow,

And Heaven, as at some festival, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

But wisest Fate says no,
And, though the shady gloom

This must not yet be so,
Had given day her room,
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,

The babe yet lies in smiling infancy,

That on the bitter cross And hid his head for shame,

Must redeem our loss,
As his inferior flame

So both himself and us to glorify:
The new-enlightend world no more should need ;
He saw a greater sun appear

Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep,
Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear. The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through

the deep, The shepherds on the lawn,

With such a horrid clang
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;

As on mount Sinai rang,
Full little thought they then

Whilethe red fire and smould'ring clouds out brate;

The ayed earth aghast, That the mighty Pan

With terror of that blast,
Was kindly come to live with them below;

Shall from the surface to the centre shake;
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When, at the world's last session,

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his When such music sweet

throne. Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook,

And then at last our bliss, Divinely-warbled voice

Full and perfect is, Answering the stringed noise,

But now begins; for, from this happy day, As all their souls in blissful rapture took :

The old dragon, under ground,
The air, such pleasure loath to lose,

In straiter limits bound,
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Not half so far casts his usurped sway;
Nature, that heard such sound,

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Beneath the hollow round

Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, The oracles are dumb;
Now was almost won,

No voice or hideous hum
To think her part was done,

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; Apollo from his shrine She knew such harmony alone

Can no more divine, Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. || At last surrounds their sight

No nightly trance, or breathed spell, A globe of circular light,

Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell

. That with long beams the shamefac'd night array'd; The lonely mountains o'er, The helmed cherubim,

And the resounding shore,
And sworded seraphim,

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, From haunted spring and dale,
Harping in loud and solemn quire,

Edg’d with poplar pale,
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born heir. The parting Genius is with sighing sent;

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With flower-inwoven tresses torn,

Sonnet on his own Blindness. The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

When I consider how my light is spent In consecrated earth,

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And on the holy hearth,

And that one talent which is death to hide, The Lars and Lemurs mourn with midnight plaint ; Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent In ums and altars round,

To serve therewith my Maker, and present A drear and dying sound

My true account, lest he, returning, chide; Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;

Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? And the chill marble seems to sweat,

I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.

That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need

Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best Peor and Baälim.

Bears his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state Forsake their temples dim,

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine ; And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
And mooned Ashtaroth,

They also serve who only stand and wait !!
Heaven's queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ;

[In Anticipation of the Attack of the Royalists upon The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn;

the City.] In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz

Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms, mourn.

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, And sullen Moloch, ied,

If deed of honour did thee ever please, Hath left in shadows dread

Guard them, and him within protect from harms. His burning idol all of blackest hue;

He can requite thee; for he knows the charms In vain with cymbals' ring

That call fame on such gentle acts as these, They call the grisly king,

And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, In dismal dance about the furnace blue :

Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

Lift not thy spear against the Muse's bower: Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare Nor is Osiris seen

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower In Memphian grore or green,

Went to the ground: And the repeated air
Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud: Of sad Electra's poet had the power
Yor can he be at rest

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
Within his sacred chest;

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud ; (On the Massacre of the Protestants in Piedmont.]
In rain with timbrellid anthems dark
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.

Arenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones

Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; He feels from Judah's land

Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, The dreaded infant's hand,

When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Forget not: in thy book record their groans Nor all the gods beside

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Longer dare abide,

Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rollid Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:

Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans Our babe, to show his Godhead true,

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow So, when the sun in bed,

O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway Curtain'd with cloudy red,

The triple tyrant; that from these may grow Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

A hundred fold, who, having learn'd thy way, The flocking shadows pale,

Early may fly the Babylonian wo.
Troop to the infernal jail,
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;

[Scene from Comus.] And the yellow-skirted fays

The LADY enters. Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd

This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, But see, the Virgin blest

My best guide now: methought it was the sound

Ofriot and ill-manag’d merriment,
Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe
Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds,
Heaven's youngest-teemed star
Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And thank the gods amiss. I should be loath

In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And all about the courtly stable

To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence
Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.

Of such late wassailers ; yet 0 ! where else
On May Morning.

Shall I inform my unacquainted feet

In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ! Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,

My brothers, when they saw me wearied out Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her With this long way, resolving here to lodge The flowery May, who from her green lap throws

Under the spreading favour of these pines, The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Stept, as they said, to the next thicket side, Hail bounteous May! that dost inspire

To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;

As the kind hospitable woods provide. Woods and groves are of thy dressing,

They left me then, when the gray-hooded Even, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.

Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, Thus we salute thee with our early song,

Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phæbus' wain. And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

But where they are, and why they came not back,

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maze.

Is now the labour of my thoughts; 'tis likeliest
They had engag'd their wandering steps too far;
And envious darkness, ere they could return,
Had stole them from me: else, O thievish night,
Why should'st thou, but for some felonious end,
In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars,
That nature hung in heaven, and fill'd their lamps
With everlasting oil, to give due light
To the misled and lonely traveller?
This is the place, as well as I may guess,
Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth
Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear;
Yet nought but single darkness do I find.
What might this be? A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,
And airy tongues, that syllable men's names
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.
These thoughts may startle well, but not astound,
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong-siding champion, Conscience.
O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings,
And thou, unblemish'd form of Chastity!
I see ye visibly, and now believe
That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill
Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,
Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,
To keep my life and honour unassail'd.
Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night!
I did not err; there does a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night,
And casts a gleam over this tufted grove:
I cannot balloo to my brothers, but
Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest,
I'll venture; for my new enliven'd spirits
Prompt me; and they perhaps are not far off.

Song.
Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen

Within thy airy shell,

By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroider'd vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?

O, if thou have
Hid'them in some flowery cave,

Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere !

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies.

Enter Comus.
Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?
Sure something holy lodges in that breast,
And with these raptures moves the vocal air
To testify his hidden residence :
How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of silence, through the empty vaulted night,
At every fall smoothing the raven down
Of darkness, till it smild! I have oft heard
My mother Circe, with the Syrens three,
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades,
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs,
Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul
And lap it in Elysium : Scylla wept,
And chid her barking waves into attention.
And fell Charybdis murmur'd soft applause.
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulld the sense,
And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself;
But such a sacred and home-felt delight,
Such sober certainty of waking bliss,
I never heard till now.

[Praise of Chastity.]

[From Comus.] 'Tis Chastity, my brother, Chastity; She that has that is clad in complete steel, And like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen, May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds, Where, through the sacred rays of Chastity, No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer, Will dare to soil her virgin purity: Yea, there, where very desolation dwells, By grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid shades, She may pass on with unblench'd majesty, Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. Some say no evil thing that walks by night In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre bag, or stubborn unlaid ghost, That breaks his magic chains at curfew time; No goblin or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call Antiquity from the old schools of Greece To testify the arms of Chastity! Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow, Fair silver-shafted queen, for ever chaste, Wherewith she tam'd the brinded lioness And spotted mountain-pard, but set at nought The frivolous bolt of Cupid ; gods and men Fear'd her stern frown, and she was queen o'th' woods. What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield That wise Minerva wore, unconquer'd virgin, Wherewith she freez'd her foes to congeal'd stone, But rigid looks of chaste austerity, And noble grace that dash'd brute violence With sudden adoration and blank awe! So dear to heaven is saintly Chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lacquey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heavenly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape, The unpolluted temple of the mind, And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence, Till all be made immortal.

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[The Spirit's Epilogue in Comus.] To the ocean now I fly, And those happy clines that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky: There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree : Along the crisped shades and bowers Revels the spruce and jocund spring; The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd hours, Thither all their bounties bring ; There eternal summer dwells, And west-winds, with musky wing, About the cedar 'n alleys fling. Nard and Cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can shew; And drenches with Elysian dew (List, mortals, if your ears be true) Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where young Adonis oft reposes, Waxing well of his deep wound In slumber soft, and on the ground

Sadly sits the Assyrian queen :
But far above in spangled sheen
Celestial Cupid, her fam'd son, advanc'd,
Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranc'd.
After her wandering labours long,
Till free consent the gods among
Make her his eternal bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath swom.

But now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly, or I can run,
Quickly to the green earth's end,
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend;
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.

Mortals, that would follow me,
Love Virtue; she alone is free:
She can teach ye how to climb
Higber than the sphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heaven itself would stoop to her.

Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-maying,
There on beds of violets blue,
And fresh blown-roses wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with theo
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek ;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come and trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe ;
And in thy right-hånd lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty:
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free:
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-brier, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine :
While the cock with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the barn door,
Stoutly struts his dames before :
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill :
Sometimes walking not unseen
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great sun begins his state,
Robed in flames, and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
While the ploughman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale,
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the landscape round it measures ;
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray ;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest ;
Meadows trim with daisies pied :
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide :
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.

Hard by a cottage-chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,
Are at their savoury dinner set
Of herbs, and other country-messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ;
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ;
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tann'd haycock in the mead.

Sometimes, with secure delight,
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound

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Remains of Milton's House at Forest Hill, near Oxford; the scenery around which is described in L'Allegro.

L'Allegro. Hence loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights

unholy; Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous

wings,
And the night-raven sings ;
There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heaven yelep'd Euphrosyne,
And by men heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth,
With two sister Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ;,
Or whether (as some sages sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,

12

To many a youth and many a maid,
Dancing in the chequer'd shade ;
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday,
Till the livelong daylight fail ;
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Fairy Mab the junkets eat ;
She was pinch'd, and pull’d, she said,
And he by friar's lantern led ;
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail had thrash'd the corn,
That ten day-lab’rers could not end,
Then lays him down the lubber fiend,
And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And cropful out of doors he flings
Ere the first cock his matin rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering winds soon lull’à asleep.

Towered cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit or arms, while both contend
To win her grace whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask and antique pageantry;
Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce,
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden slumbers on a bed
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His

half-regain'd Eurydice.

These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

N Penseroso.
Hence vain deluding joys,
The brood of Folly, without father bred !
How little you bested,

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys !
Dwell in some idle brain;
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, Or likest hovering dreams,

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy,
Hail divinest Melancholy,
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight;
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;

Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem ;
Or that starrid Ethiop queen that strove
To set her beauty's praise above
The sea-nymphs, and their pow'rs offended:
Yet thou art higher far descended.
Thee, bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain),
Oft, in glimmering bowers and glades,
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cypress-lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till,
With a sad leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast;
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,
Aye round about Jove's altar sing;
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation :
And the mute silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night;
While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke,
Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak.
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy !
Thee, chantress, oft the woods among
I woo, to hear thy erining song:
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heav'ns' wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar.
Or if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy chårm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely tow'r,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice-great Hermes ; or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook :

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