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 ruins —which seem curs'd—and frown

As if some evil ghosts were there;

Where bravery scarce dares stay alone,

O what a woeful page they are,

Of man in passion's fierce career:

The very winds that whistle thro',

Seem shuddering midst the gloomy pile:

There spectra meet—and sigh awhile;

And as the screech-owls cry to-whoo!

The fiends of evil shriek and smile.