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IV.

Then the clan rose up from the ground, and gave ear,
And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a Bier;
Its plumes from the eagle's wings were shed,
And the wine-black samite above it spread
Inwov'n with sad emblems and texts divine,
And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine,

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And all that is meet for the great and brave
When past are the measured years God gave,
And a voice cries ‘Come’ from the waiting grave.