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of biography, but from such materials as could be collected from magazines and other equally unauthentic sources.

In one of these versions a notable mistake occurs, occasioned by the French pronunciation of an English word. The whole passage indeed, in both versions, may be regarded as curiously exemplifying the difference between French and English poetry.

"The lamps and tapers now grew pale,
And through the eastern windows slanting fell
The roseate ray of morn. Within those walls
Returning day restored no cheerful sounds
Or joyous motions of awakening life;

But in the stream of light the speckled motes
As if in mimicry of insect play,

Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down
Over the altar pass'd the pillar'd beam,
And rested on the sinful woman's grave
As if it enter'd there, a light from Heaven.
So be it! cried Pelayo, even so!

As in a momentary interval,

espères en moi pour abréger et adoucir ton supplice, temporaire, pardonne moi d'avoir, sous ces habits et dans cette nuit, détourné mes pensées sur d'autres devoirs. Notre patrie commune a exige de moi ce sacrifice, et ton fils doit dorénavant accomplir plus d'une ville dans la profondeur des forêts sur la cime des monts, dans les plaines couvertes de tentes, observant, pour l'amour de l'Espagne, la marche des astres de la nuit, et préparant l'ouvrage de sa journée avant que le soleil ne commence sa course."- T. i. pp. 175—177.

In the other translation the motes are not converted into moths, but the image is omitted.

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Consumées dans des soins pareils les rapides heures s'écouloient, les lampes et les torches commençoient à pâlir, et l'oblique rayon du matin doroit déjà les vitraux élevés qui regardoient vers l'Orient: le retour du jour ne ramenoit point, dans cette sombre enceinte, les sons joyeux, ni le tableau mourant de la vie qui se reveille; mais, tombant d'en haut, le céleste rayon, passant au-dessus de l'autel, vint frapper le tombeau de la femme pécheresse. "Ainsi

When thought expelling thought, had left his mind | soit-il," s'écria Pelage; “ainsi soit-il, 6 divin Open and passive to the influxes

Of outward sense, his vacant eye was there,—
So be it, Heavenly Father, even so!
Thus may thy vivifying goodness shed
Forgiveness there; for let not thou the groans
Of dying penitence, nor my bitter prayers
Before thy mercy-seat, be heard in vain!

Créateur! Puisse ta virifiante bonté verser ainsi le pardon en ce lieu! Que les gémissemens d'une mort pénitente, que mes amères prières ne soient pas arrivées en vain devant la trône de miséricorde! Et toi, qui, de ton séjour de souffrances et de larmes, regardes vers ton fils, pour abréger et soulager tes peines, pardonne, si d'autres devoirs ont rempli les

And thou, poor soul, who from the dolorous house heures que cette nuit et cet habit m'enjoignoient de

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et

Il se livrait à toutes ces réflexions, quand la lumière des lampes et des cierges commença à pâlir, que les premières teintes de l'aurore se montrèrent à travers les hautes croisées tournées vers l'orient. Le retour du jour ne ramena point dans ces murs des sons joyeux ni les mouvemens de la vie qui se réveille; les seuls papillons de nuit, agitant leurs ailes pesantes, bourdonnaient encore sous les voites ténébreuses. Bientôt le premier rayon du soleil glissant obliquement par-dessus l'autel, vint s'arrêter sur la tombe de la femme pécheresse, et la lumière du ciel sembla y pénétrer. "Que ce présage s'accomplisse," s'écria Pelage, qui absorbé dans ses méditations, firait en ce moment ses yeux sur le tombeau de sa mere; "Dieu de miséricorde, qu'il en soit ainsi! Puisse ta bonté vivifiante y verser de même le pardon! Que les sanglots de la pénitence expirante, et que mes prières amères ne montent point en vain devant le trone éternel. Et toi, pauvre âme, qui de ton séjour douloureux de souffrances et de larmes,

*See page 667, col. 2.

te consacrer! Notre patrie exigeoit ce sacrifice; d'autres vigiles m'attendent dans les bois et les défilés de nos montagnes; et bientôt sous la tente, il me faudra veiller, le soir, avant que le ciel ne se couvre d'étoiles, être prêt pour le travail du jour, avant que le soleil ne commence sa course.' - Pp. 92, 93.

A very good translation, in Dutch verse, was published in two volumes, 8vo, 1823-4, with this title: :-"Rodrigo de Goth, Koning van Spanje. Naar het Engelsch van Southey gevolgd, door Vrouwe Katharina Wilhelmina Bilderdijk. Te 's Gravenhage." It was sent to me with the following epistle from her husband, Mr. Willem Bilderdijk.

"Roberto Southey, viro spectatissimo,

Gulielmus Bilderdijk, S. P. D.

"Etsi ea nunc temporis passim invaluerit opinio, poetarum genus quam maxima gloriæ cupiditate flagrare, mihi tamen contraria semper insedit persuasio, qui divinæ Poëseos altitudinem veramque laudem non nisi ab iis cognosci putavi quorum præ cæteris e meliori luto finxerit præcordia Titan, neque aut verè aut justè judicari vatem nisi ab iis qui eodem afflatu moveantur. Sexagesimus autem jam agitur annus ex quo et ipse meos inter æquales poëta salutor, eumque locum quem ineunte adolescentia occupare contigit, in hunc usque diem tenuisse videor, popularis auræ nunquam captator, quin immo perpetuus contemptor; parcus ipse laudator, censor gravis et nonnunquam molestus.

"I have read Roderick over and over again, and am the more and more convinced that it is the noblest epic poem of the age. I have had some correspondence and a good deal of conversation with Mr. Jeffrey about it, though he does not agree with me in every particular. He says it is too long, and wants elasticity, and will not, he fears, be generally read, though much may be said in its favor. I had even teased him to let me review it for him, on account, as I said, that he could not appreciate its merits. I copy one sentence out of the letter he sent in answer to mine: —

Tuum vero nomen, Vir celeberrime ac spectatis- see by the Papers, and if I may believe some comsime, jam antea veneratus, perlecto tuo de Roderi- munications that I have got, the public opinion of co rege poëmate, non potui non summis extollere it is high; but these communications to an author laudibus, quo doctissimo simul ac venustissimo are not to be depended on. opere, si minus divinam Aeneida, saltem immortalem Tassonis Epopeiam tentasse, quin et certo respectu ita superasse videris, ut majorum perpaucos, æqualium neminem, cum vera fide ac pietate in Deum, tum ingenio omnique poëtica dote tibi comparandum existimem. Ne mireris itaque, carminis tui gravitate ac dulcedine captam, meoque judicio fultam, non illaudatam in nostratibus Musam tuum illud nobile poëma fœminea manu sed non insueto labore attrectasse, Belgicoque sermone reddidisse. Hanc certe, per quadrantem seculi et quod excurrit felicissimo connubio mihi junctam, meamque in Divina arte alumnam ac sociam, nimium in eo sibi sumpsisse nemo facile arbitrabitur cui vel minimum Poëseos nostræ sensum usurpare contigerit; nec ego hos ejus conatus quos illustri tuo nomini dicandos putavit, tibi mea manu offerre dubitabam. Hæc itaque utriusque nostrum in te observantiæ specimina accipe, Vir illustrissime, ac si quod communium studiorum, si quod veræ pie-posed to give Southey a lavish allowance of praise; tatis est vinculum, nos tibi ex animo habe addictissimos. Vale.

"For Southey I have, as well as you, great respect, and when he will let me, great admiration; but he is a most provoking fellow, and at least as conceited as his neighbor Wordsworth. I cannot just trust you with his Roderick; but I shall be extremely happy to talk over that and other kindred subjects with you; for I am every way dis

and few things would give me greater pleasure than to find he had afforded me a fair opportunity. "Dabam Lugduni in Batavis. Ipsis idib. But I must do my duty according to my own apFebruar. CIOƆCCCXXIV." prehensions of it.'

I went to Leyden in 1825, for the purpose of seeing the writer of this epistle, and the lady who had translated my poem, and addressed it to me in some very affecting stanzas. It so happened, that on my arrival in that city, I was laid up under a surgeon's care; they took me into their house, and made the days of my confinement as pleasurable as they were memorable. I have never been acquainted with a man of higher intellectual power, nor of greater learning, nor of more various and extensive knowledge than Bilderdijk, confessedly the most distinguished man of letters in his own country. His wife was worthy of him. I paid them another visit the following year. They are now both gone to their rest, and I shall not look upon their like again.

"I supped with him last night, but there was so many people that I got but little conversation with him; but what we had was solely about you and Wordsworth. I suppose you have heard what a crushing review he has given the latter. I still found him persisting in his first asseveration, that it was heavy; but what was my pleasure to find that he had only got to the seventeenth division! I assured him he had the marrow of the thing to come at as yet, and in that I was joined by Mr. Alison. There was at the same time a Lady Mjoined us at the instant; short as her remark was, it seemed to make more impression on Jeffrey than all our arguments: - 'Oh, I do love Southey!' that was all. "I have no room to tell you more. But I beg that you will not do any thing, nor publish any Soon after the publication of Roderick, I re-thing that will nettle Jeffrey for the present, ceived the following curious letter from the Ettrick knowing, as you do, how omnipotent he is with the Shepherd, (who had passed a few days with me in fashionable world, and seemingly so well disposed the preceding autumn,) giving me an account of toward you. his endeavors to procure a favorable notice of the poem in the Edinburgh Review.

"MY DEAR SIR,

"Edinburgh, Dec. 15, 1814.

"I was very happy at seeing the post-mark of Keswick, and quite proud of the pleasure you make me believe my "Wake" has given to the beauteous and happy group at Greta Hall. Indeed, few things could give me more pleasure, for I left my heart a sojourner among them. I have had a higher opinion of matrimony since that period than ever I had before; and I desire that you will positively give my kindest respects to each of them individually.

"I am ever yours most truly,
"JAMES HOGG.

"I wish the Notes may be safe enough. I never looked at them. I wish these large quartoes were all in hell burning."

The reader will be as much amused as I was with poor Hogg's earnest desire that I would not say any thing which might tend to frustrate his friendly intentions.

But what success the Shepherd met,
Is to the world a secret yet.

There can be no reason, however, for withhold

"The Pilgrim of the Sun is published, as you will ing what was said in my reply of the crushing re

view which had been given to Mr. Wordsworth's | ORPAS,..
poem: -"He crush the Excursion!! Tell him he
might as easily crush Skiddaw!"

KESWICK, 15 June, 1838.

ORIGINAL PREFACE.

THE history of the Wisi-Goths for some years before their overthrow is very imperfectly known. It is, however, apparent that the enmity between the royal families of Chindasuintho and Wamba was one main cause of the destruction of the kingdom, the latter party having assisted in betraying their country to the Moors for the gratification of their own revenge. Theodofred and Favila were younger sons of King Chindasaintho; King Witiza, who was of Wamba's family, put out the eyes of Theodofred, and murdered Favila, at the instigation of that Chieftain's wife, with whom he lived in adultery. Pelayo, the son of Favila, and afterwards the founder of the Spanish monarchy, was driven into exile. Roderick, the son of Theodofred, recovered the throne, and put out Witiza's eyes in vengeance for his father; but he spared Orpas, the brother of the tyrant, as being a Priest, and Ebba and Sisibert, the two sons of Witiza, by Pelayo's mother. It may be convenient thus briefly to premise these circumstances of an obscure portion of history, with which few readers can be supposed to be familiar; and a list of the principal persons who are introduced, or spoken of, may as properly be prefixed to a Poem as to a Play.

WITIZA,

SISIBERT, ЕЕВА, NUMACIAN,

...

...

... brother to Witiza, and formerly Archbishop of Seville, now a renegade.

sons of Witiza and of Pelayo's mother.

. a renegade, governor of Gegio. COUNT JULIAN, ... a powerful Lord among the Wisi-Goths, now a renegade.

FLORINDA, ....... his daughter, violated by King Roderick.

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LONG had the crimes of Spain cried out to Heaven:
At length the measure of offence was full.
Count Julian call'd the invaders; not because
Inhuman priests with unoffending blood
Had stain'd their country; not because a yoke
Of iron servitude oppress'd and gall'd
The children of the soil: a private wrong
Roused the remorseless Baron. Mad to wreak
His vengeance, for his violated child,
On Roderick's head, in evil hour for Spain,
For that unhappy daughter, and himself, -
Desperate apostate!· -on the Moors he call'd;
And like a cloud of locusts, whom the South
Wafts from the plains of wasted Africa,
The Mussulmen upon Iberia's shore

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King of the Wisi-Goths; dethroned and Descend. A countless multitude they came; Syrian, Moor, Saracen, Greek renegade, THEODOFRED,.... son of King Chindasuintho, blinded by Persian, and Copt, and Tatar, in one bond

FAVILA,....

blinded by Roderick.

King Witiza.

his brother; put to death by Witiza. The Wife of Favila, Witiza's adulterous mistress.

(These four persons are dead before the action of the poem commences.)

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Of erring faith conjoin'd, - strong in the youth
And heat of zeal,-
-a dreadful brotherhood,
In whom all turbulent vices were let loose;
While Conscience, with their impious creed ac-
curs'd

the last King of the Wisi-Goths; son Drunk as with wine, had sanctified to them
All bloody, all abominable things.

of Theodofred.

.. the founder of the Spanish Monarchy; son of Favila.

RODERICK,..

PELAYO,.

GAUDIOSA,

his wife. .. his sister. ... his son.

GUISLA,

FAVILA,

HERMESIND, RUSILLA,

COUNT PEDRO,

COUNT EUDON,

ALPHONSO,

URBAN,

ROMANO,

ABDALAZIZ,

his daughter.

Thou, Calpe, saw'st their coming; ancient Rock Renown'd, no longer now shalt thou be call'd From Gods and Heroes of the years of yore, Kronos, or hundred-handed Briareus,

widow of Theodofred, and mother of Bacchus, or Hercules; but doom'd to bear

Roderick.

powerful Lords of Cantabria.

Count Pedro's son, afterwards King. Archbishop of Toledo.

The name of thy new conqueror, and thenceforth
To stand his everlasting monument.

Thou saw'st the dark-blue waters flash before
Their ominous way, and whiten round their keels;

a Monk of the Caulian Schools, near Their swarthy myriads darkening o'er thy sands.

Merida.

the Moorish governor of Spain. formerly the wife of Roderick, now of [Abdalaziz.

EGILONA, ABULCACEM,

ALCAHMAN,

AYUB,

Moorish Chiefs.

IBRAHIM,

MAGUED,

There, on the beach, the Misbelievers spread
Their banners, flaunting to the sun and breeze;
Fair shone the sun upon their proud array,
White turbans, glittering armor, shields engrail'd
With gold, and cimeters of Syrian steel;
And gently did the breezes, as in sport,

Curl their long flags outrolling, and display
The blazon'd scrolls of blasphemy. Too soon
The gales of Spain from that unhappy land
Wafted, as from an open charnel-house,
The taint of death; and that bright sun, from fields
Of slaughter, with the morning dew drew up
Corruption through the infected atmosphere.

Then fell the kingdom of the Goths; their hour Was come, and Vengeance, long withheld, went loose.

Famine and Pestilence had wasted them,
And Treason, like an old and eating sore,
Consumed the bones and sinews of their strength;
And, worst of enemies, their Sins were arm'd
Against them. Yet the sceptre from their hands
Pass'd not away inglorious, nor was shame
Left for their children's lasting heritage;
Eight summer days, from morn till latest eve,
The fatal fight endured, till perfidy
Prevailing to their overthrow, they sunk
Defeated, not dishonor'd. On the banks
Of Chrysus, Roderick's royal car was found,
His battle-horse Orelio, and that helm
Whose horns, amid the thickest of the fray

His horned helmet and enamell'd mail,
He cast aside, and taking from the dead
A peasant's garment, in those weeds involved
Stole like a thief in darkness from the field.

Evening closed round to favor him. All night
He fled, the sound of battle in his ear
Ringing, and sights of death before his eyes,
With forms more horrible of eager fiends
That seem'd to hover round, and gulfs of fire
Opening beneath his feet. At times the groan
Of some poor fugitive, who, bearing with him
His mortal hurt, had fallen beside the way,
Roused him from these dread visions, and he call'd
In answering groans on his Redeemer's name,
That word the only prayer that pass'd his lips,
Or rose within his heart. Then would he see
The Cross whereon a bleeding Savior hung,
Who call'd on him to come and cleanse his soul
In those all-healing streams, which from his
wounds,

As from perpetual springs, forever flow'd.
No hart e'er panted for the water-brooks
As Roderick thirsted there to drink and live;
But Hell was interposed; and worse than Hell —

Eminent, had mark'd his presence. Did the Yea, to his eyes more dreadful than the fiends

stream

Receive him with the undistinguish'd dead,

Who flock'd like hungry ravens round his head,—
Florinda stood between, and warn'd him off
that agony

Christian and Moor, who clogg'd its course that With her abhorrent hands,
day?

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Still in her face, which, when the deed was done,

So thought the Conqueror; and from that day forth, Inflicted on her ravisher the curse
Memorial of his perfect victory,

He bade the river bear the name of Joy.

So thought the Goths; they said no prayer for him,
For him no service sung, nor mourning made,
But charged their crimes upon his head, and cursed
His memory.

Bravely in that eight-days' fight The King had striven, - for victory first, while hope

Remain'd, then desperately in search of death.
The arrows pass'd him by to right and left;
The spear-point pierced him not; the cimeter
Glanced from his helmet. Is the shield of Heaven,
Wretch that I am, extended over me?
Cried Roderick; and he dropp'd Orelio's reins,
And threw his hands aloft in frantic prayer,-
Death is the only mercy that I crave,
Death soon and short, death and forgetfulness!
Aloud he cried; but in his inmost heart
There answer'd him a secret voice, that spake
Of righteousness and judgment after death,

That it invoked from Heaven. - Oh, what a night
Of waking horrors! Nor, when morning came,
Did the realities of light and day
Bring aught of comfort; wheresoe'er he went
The tidings of defeat had gone before;
And leaving their defenceless homes to seek
What shelter walls and battlements might yield,
Old men with feeble feet, and tottering babes,
And widows with their infants in their arms,
Hurried along. Nor royal festival,

Nor sacred pageant, with like multitudes
E'er fill'd the public way. All whom the sword
Had spared were here; bed-rid infirmity
Alone was left behind; the cripple plied
His crutches; with her child of yesterday
The mother fled, and she whose hour was come
Fell by the road.

Less dreadful than this view
Of outward suffering which the day disclosed,
Had night and darkness seem'd to Roderick's heart,
With all their dread creations. From the throng

And God's redeeming love, which fain would save He turn'd aside, unable to endure

The guilty soul alive. 'Twas agony,

And yet 'twas hope; - a momentary light,
That flash'd through utter darkness on the Cross
To point salvation, then left all within
Dark as before. Fear, never felt till then,
Sudden and irresistible as stroke

Of lightning, smote him. From his horse he dropp'd,
Whether with human impulse, or by Heaven
Struck down, he knew not; loosen'd from his wrist
The sword-chain, and let fall the sword, whose hilt
Clung to his palm a moment ere it fell,

Glued there with Moorish gore. His royal robe,

This burden of the general woe; nor walls,
Nor towers, nor mountain fastnesses he sought;
A firmer hold his spirit yearn'd to find,

A rock of surer strength. Unknowing where,
Straight through the wild he hasten'd on all day,
And with unslacken'd speed was travelling still
When evening gather'd round. Seven days, from

morn

Till night, he travell'd thus; the forest oaks,
The fig-grove by the fearful husbandman
Forsaken to the spoiler, and the vines,
Where fox and household dog together now

Fed on the vintage, gave him food; the hand

Of Heaven was on him, and the agony

And suffocating thoughts repress'd the word, And shudderings like an ague-fit, from head

Which wrought within, supplied a strength beyond | To foot convulsed him; till at length, subduing All natural force of man.

When the eighth eve
Was come, he found himself on Ana's banks,
Fast by the Caulian Schools. It was the hour
Of vespers; but no vesper-bell was heard,
Nor other sound, than of the passing stream,
Or stork, who, flapping with wide wing the air,
Sought her broad nest upon the silent tower.
Brethren and pupils thence alike had fled
To save themselves within the embattled walls
Of neighboring Merida. One aged Monk
Alone was left behind; he would not leave
The sacred spot beloved, for having served
There, from his childhood up to ripe old age,
God's holy altar, it became him now,
He thought, before that altar to await
The merciless misbelievers, and lay down
His life, a willing martyr. So he staid
When all were gone, and duly fed the lamps,
And kept devotedly the altar dress'd,
And duly offer'd up the sacrifice.

Four days and nights he thus had pass'd alone,
In such high mood of saintly fortitude,
That hope of Heaven became a heavenly joy ;
And now at evening to the gate he went,
If he might spy the Moors, for it seem'd long
To tarry for his crown.

Before the Cross Roderick had thrown himself; his body raised, Half kneeling, half at length he lay; his arms Embraced its foot, and from his lifted face Tears streaming down bedew'd the senseless stone. He had not wept till now; and at the gush Of these first tears, it seem'd as if his heart, From a long winter's icy thrall let loose, Had open'd to the genial influences Of Heaven. In attitude, but not in act Of prayer he lay; an agony of tears Was all his soul could offer. When the Monk Beheld him suffering thus, he raised him up, And took him by the arm, and led him in ; And there, before the altar, in the name Of Him whose bleeding image there was hung, Spake comfort, and adjured him in that name There to lay down the burden of his sins. Lo said Romano, I am waiting here The coming of the Moors, that from their hands My spirit may receive the purple robe Of martyrdom, and rise to claim its crown. That God who willeth not the sinner's death Hath led thee hither. Threescore years and five, Even from the hour when I, a five-years' child, Enter'd the schools, have I continued here, And served the altar: not in all those years Hath such a contrite and a broken heart Appear'd before me. O my brother, Heaven Hath sent thee for thy comfort, and for mine, That my last earthly act may reconcile A sinner to his God.

Then Roderick knelt Before the holy man, and strove to speak. Thou seest, he cried, thou seest, but memory

His nature to the effort, he exclaim'd,"
Spreading his hands and lifting up his face,
As if resolved in penitence to bear

A human eye upon his shame, - Thou seest
Roderick the Goth! That name would have sufficed
To tell its whole abhorred history:

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Raised to the Monk, like one who from his voice
Awaited life or death.

All night the old man
Pray'd with his penitent, and minister'd
Unto the wounded soul, till he infused
A healing hope of mercy that allay'd
Its heat of anguish. But Romano saw
What strong temptations of despair beset,
And how he needed in this second birth,
Even like a yearling child, a fosterer's care.
Father in Heaven, he cried, thy will be done!
Surely I hoped that I this day should sing
Hosannahs at thy throne; but thou hast yet
Work for thy servant here. He girt his loins,
And from her altar took, with reverent hands,
Our Lady's image down: In this, quoth he,
We have our guide, and guard, and comforter,
The best provision for our perilous way.
Fear not but we shall find a resting-place;
The Almighty's hand is on us.

They went forth;
They cross'd the stream; and when Romano turn'd
For his last look toward the Caulian towers,
Far off the Moorish standards in the light
Of morn were glittering, where the miscreant host
Toward the Lusitanian capital

To lay their siege advanced; the eastern breeze
Bore to the fearful travellers far away
The sound of horn and tambour o'er the plain.
All day they hasten'd, and when evening fell,
Sped toward the setting sun, as if its line
Of glory came from Heaven to point their course.
But feeble were the feet of that old man
For such a weary length of way; and now
Being pass'd the danger, (for in Merida
Sacaru long in resolute defence
Withstood the tide of war,) with easier pace
The wanderers journey'd on; till having cross'd
Rich Tagus, and the rapid Zezere,
They from Albardos' hoary height beheld
Pine-forest, fruitful vale, and that fair lake
Where Alcoa, mingled there with Baza's stream,
Rests on its passage to the western sea,
That sea the aim and boundary of their toil.

The fourth week of their painful pilgrimage Was full, when they arrived where from the land A rocky hill, rising with steep ascent, O'erhung the glittering beach; there, on the top, A little, lowly hermitage they found, And a rude Cross, and at its foot a grave,

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