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Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, As the spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rhythmical number Which lull'd him to rest?"

Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro' Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight – Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar, O Death! from eye of God upon that star: Sweet was that error – sweeter still that death – Sweet was that error – even with us the breath Of Science dims the mirror of our joy – To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy – For what (to them) availeth it to know That Truth is Falsehood – or that Bliss is Woe? Sweet was their death – with them to die was rife With the last ecstasy of satiate life – Beyond that death no immortality – But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"!&mdash;