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will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?"

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said darkhaired Orla, "and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay me by the stream of Lubar." "And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." 66 Calmar," ," said the chief of Oithona, "why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of praise." "Orla," said the son of Mora, "could I raise the song of death to my friend? Could I give his fam to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar." They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of the oak dim twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona ?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Connal calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. “Mathon is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls

from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen! but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven."

"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the song when I am dark!"

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven :-the bards raised the song.

What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. "Tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the storm." (1)

(1) I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults-particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.

The

present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author. "

L'AMITIÉ EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. (1)

[Written December, 1806.]

WHY should my anxious breast repine,

Because my youth is fled?

Days of delight may still be mine;

Affection is not dead.

In tracing back the years of youth,
One firm record, one lasting truth
Celestial consolation brings;
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat
Where first my heart responsive beat,—
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Through few, but deeply chequer'd years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,
Now bright in rays divine;
Howe'er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,

To one idea fondly clings;
Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone-
Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave
Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,

Which tells the common tale;
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray,
Till the dull knell of childish play

From yonder studious mansion rings;
But here whene'er my footsteps move,
My silent tears too plainly prove

"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Oh Love! before thy glowing shrine

My early vows were paid;

My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay'd:

For thine are pinions like the wind,
No trace of thee remains behind,

Except, alas! thy jealous stings.
Away, away! delusive power,
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour;

Unless, indeed, without thy wings.
Seat of my youth! (2) thy distant spire
Recalls each scene of joy;

My bosom glows with former fire,-
In mind again a boy.

Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,
Thy every path delights me still,

Each flower a double fragrance flings;
Again, as once, in converse gay,
Each dear associate seems to say

"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

(1) See ante, p. 36, c. I, note. We insert this poem here on account of the date of its composition. It was not however included in the publication of 1807.-L. E. (2) Harrow.

(3) The Earl of Clare.-L. E.

(4) The young poet had recently received from Lord Clare an epistle containing this passage:-"I think, by your last letter, that you are very much piqued with most of your friends; and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with me. In one part you say, there is little or no doubt a few years, or months, will render us as politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a portion of our time together:' indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt at least I hope-you wrong yourself."-L. E. (5) It is difficult to conjecture for what reason, but these stanzas were not included in the publication of 1807; though few will hesitate to place them higher than any

My Lycus! (3) wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,

But, oh, 't will wake again. (4)
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet!

From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence, my friend, can only tell,

"Friendship is Love without his wings!" In one, and one alone, deceived, Did I my error mourn? No-from oppressive bonds relieved,

I left the wretch to scorn.

I turn'd to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,

Twined with my heart's according strings;
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake
Friendship, the power deprived of wings!
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love ensures,
Unfetter'd in its scope;

From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,
Let Adulation wait on kings:
With joy elate, by snares beset,
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard
Who rolls the epic song;
Friendship and Truth be my reward-
To me no bays belong;

If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings;
Simple and young, I dare not feign;
Mine be the rude yet heartfeld strain,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

THE PRAYER OF NATURE. (5)

[Written December 29, 1806.] FATHER of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?

Father of Light, on thee I call!

Thou see'st my soul is dark within; Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,

Avert from me the death of sin.

thing given in that volume. "Written when the author was not nineteen years of age, this remarkable poem shows," says Moore, "how, early the struggle between natural piety and doubt began in his mind." In reading the celebrated critique of the Edinburgh Review on the Hours of Idleness, the fact that the volume did not include this "Prayer of Nature" ought to be kept in mind.-L. E.

This little poem, on the whole, affords a tolerably correct notion of Lord Byron's religious creed, though the contradictory nature of his writings renders it impossible to set that question positively at rest. He probably had no pre. cise opinion on the subject of religion, and considered it, as he himself says in Don Juan,

"a pleasant voyage, perhaps to float
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation."

To a memorandum of the writers on Divinity, whose works

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh point to me the path of truth!
Thy dread omnipotence I own;
Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,

Let Superstition hail the pile,
Let priests, to spread their sable reign,
With tales of mystic rights beguile.
Shall man confine his Maker's sway

To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?
Thy temple is the face of day;

Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne.(1) Shall man condemn his race to hell,

Unless they bend in pompous form; Tell us that all, for one who fell,

Must perish in the mingling storm?
Shall each pretend to reach the skies,
Yet doom his brother to expire,
Whose soul a different hope supplies,

Or doctrines less severe inspire?
Shall these, by creeds they can't expound,
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?
Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground,
Their great Creator's purpose know?
Shall those, who live for self alone,

Whose years float on in daily crime-
Shall they by faith for guilt atone,

And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet's laws I seek,—

Thy laws in Nature's works appear;— I own myself corrupt and weak,

Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Thou, who canst guide the wandering star Through trackless realms of æther's space; Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose band from pole to pole I trace:

he had perused, he is stated by Moore to have subjoined the following remark: "I abhor books of religion, though I reverence and love my God, without the blasphemous notions of sectaries, or belief in their absurd and damnable heresies, mysteries, and thirty-nine articles."

In a letter to Mr. Dallas, quoted by that gentleman in his Correspondence, Byron thus vaguely expresses himself: "I hold virtue in general, or the virtues severally, to be only in the disposition; each a feeling, not a principle. I believe truth the prime attribute of the Deity, and death an eternal sleep, at least of the body."

"I remember saying to him," observes Sir Walter Scott, "that I really thought that, if he lived a few years, he would alter his sentiments. He answered, rather sharply, I suppose you are one of those who prophesy I will turn methodist?' I replied, 'No-I don't expect your conversion to be of such an ordinary kind. I would rather look to see you retreat upon the Catholic faith, and distinguish yourself by the austerity of your penances. The species of religion to which you must, or may, one day attach yourself, must exercise a strong power on the imagination.' He smiled gravely, and seemed to allow I might be right."

"I am no bigot to infidelity," says Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr. Gifford, "and did not expect that, because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative insignificance of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions to eternity might be overrated."

"To say the truth," Byron, on one occasion, confessed, "I find it equally difficult to know what to believe in this

Thou, who in wisdom placed me here,

Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, Extend to me thy wide defence.

To Thee, my God, to thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide,

If, when this dust to dust's restored,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious name adored
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!
But, if this fleeting spirit share

With clay the grave's eternal bed,
While life yet throbs I raise my prayer,

Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. To Thee I breathe my humble strain,

Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again This erring life may fly at last.

TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. (2)
"Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico."-Hoa.
DEAR LONG, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;

Or if, in melancholy mood,

Some lurking envious fear intrude,

world, and what not to believe. There are as many plausible reasons for inducing me to die a bigot, as there have been to make me hitherto live a free-thinker." Millington.-P.E. (1) The poet appears to have had in his mind one of Mr. Southey's juvenile pieces, beginning, "Go, thou, unto the honse of prayer, I to the woodlands will repair." "-L. E.

(2) This young gentleman, who was with Lord Byron both at Harrow and Cambridge, afterwards entered the Guards, and served with distinction in the expedition to Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in which he sailed being run foul of in the night by another of the convoy. "Long's father," says Lord Byron, "wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised — but I had not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being as rarely remains long, in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too, to make him the more regretted." Diary, 1821.-L. E.

In the diary from which the above is an extract, Lord Byron gives the following strange instance of the moody melancholy that occasionally preyed on the mind of his old schoolfellow and College companion: "Though a cheerful companion," says his Lordship," he had strange melancholy thoughts sometimes. I remember once that we were going to his uncle's, I think I went to accompany him to the door merely, in some Upper or Lower Grosvenor or Brook street, I forget which, but it was in a street leading out of some square; he told me that the night before he had taken up a pistol, not knowing or examining whether it was loaded or no, and had snapped it at his head, leaving it to chance whether it might or might not be charged."-P. E.

To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,

And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; Nor through the groves of Ida chase

Our raptured visions as before; Though Youth has fl wn on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominionAge will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring: But if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning Age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone; Oh! may my bosom never learn

To soothe its wonted heedless flow; Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days O'er which Remembrance yet delays, Still may rove, untutor'd, wild, And even in age at heart a child.

Though now on airy visions borne,

To you my soul is still the same. Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame. But, hence! ye hours of sable hue! Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: By every bliss my childhood knew,

I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's 's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast,

When lull'd by Zephyr to repose.

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The soul's meridian don't become her,
Whose sun displays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And passion's self is now a name.
As, when the ebbing flames are low,

The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

But now, dear, LONG, 't is midnight's noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Described in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er,
Which every bard has trod before?
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round,
Has thrice retraced her path of light,

And chased away the gloom profound,
I trust that we, my gentle friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat

Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; (1)
And then with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle in the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of souls shall pour
The sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.

TO A LADY. (2)

OH! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken. (3)
To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know

"T was thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure,

Bestow'd by thee upon another. Perhaps his peace I could destroy,

And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone,

Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!

"Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;

had been shed by our fathers-it would have joined lands broad and rich it would have joined at least one heart, and two persons not ill matched in years (she is two years my elder), and — and — and — what has been the result?" Diary, 1821.-L. E.

Nor Hope nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures, If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:This cheek, now pale from early riot, With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For nature seem'd to smile before thee; (1) And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee.

But now I seek for other joys;

To think would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet, even in these a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour,—
And fiends might pity what I feel,-
To know that thou art lost for ever.

TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. On! yes, I will own we were dear to each other; The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;

The attachment of years in a moment expires: Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,

And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow : In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather! But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. No more with affection shall memory, blending,

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be justice appears a disgrace.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you—
The few whom I love I can never upbraid—
The chance which has lost may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection,

That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, If danger demanded, were wholly your own; You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, Devoted to love and to friendship alone.

(1) "Our meetings," says Lord Byron in 1822, "were stolen ones, and a gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's grounds to those of my mother was the place of our interviews. But the ardour was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile: she liked me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she, however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses upon. Had I married her, perhaps the whole tenor of my life would have been different."-L. E.

The picture alluded to in the foregoing note was inse

You knew, but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.

For the present, we part,-I will hope not for ever;
For time and regret will restore you at last :
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour;
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

TO THE EARL OF CLARE.

"Tu semper amoris

Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago."-VAL. FLAC. FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved, Like striplings, mutually beloved,

With friendship's purest glow,

The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.

The recollection seems alone

Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:

Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!

My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,

And we may meet-ah! never!
As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain;

How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the main!

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:

Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear,

And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler human sports,
"Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in fashion's annals.

"Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
Without the aid of reason;
For sense and reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous poet,.
Nor left a thought to seize on..

parable from his Lordship's person. "He had always,"
says Captain Medwin, "a black ribbon round his neck,
to which was attached a locket, containing hair and a
picture. We had been playing at billiards one night,
till the balls appeared double, when all at once he search-
ed hastily for something under his waistcoat, and said, in
great alarm, Good God! I have lost my.
!' but before

he had finished the sentence, he discovered the hidden treasure."-Medwin's Conversations of Lord Byron. -P. E.

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