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Now sighing, stopt again the querulous power,
And ruminated thoughtful—o'er the turf,
Swell'd into mountains by the mingled dead,
He cast a serious eye—and now the hours,
The light-wing'd messengers of hoary Time,
Brought on the fable zenith of the night,
Cloudless and incompos'd by gale or shower,
Save that the Zephir rising from the south,
Rustled the light leaf of the spreading beech.
Far thro' the cærule air, the timid moon
Her faint ray flung upon the shadowy earth;
Struck by the scene, Imagination turn'd
Reflective, on a loss still more severe;
A loss that all the Muses mourn at once.
The cheek of GENIUS stream'd with warmer tears,

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Deepen'd the searching sigh, and throbb'd the heart,
As thus at length the bursting grief found way: