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Upon this scene, this show,

Yielded to-day by fashion, learning, wealth,

(Nor in caprice alone — some grains of deepest meaning,)

Haply, aloft, (who knows?) from distant sky-clouds’ blended shapes,

As some old tree, or rock or cliff, thrill’d with its soul,

Product of Nature’s sun, stars, earth direct — a towering human form,

In hunting-shirt of film, arm’d with the rifle, a half-ironical

smile curving its phantom lips,

Like one of Ossian’s ghosts looks down.