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THE Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.
The chief of Lara is return'd again :
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
That fearful empire which the human breast
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace
And Lara left in youth his father-land;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Had nearly ceased his memory to recal.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there; 30 Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,