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In distant lands now waits a better time,
In happy climes, where from the genial sun
In happy climes the seat of innocence,
There shall be sung another golden age,
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung.
Westward the course of empire takes its way
A fifth shall close the drama with the day;