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Rh

That in some grand and awful ministration Of mighty nature has ingulphed been, Doth lift aloft its dark and rocky cliffs O'er the wild waste around, and sadly frowns In lonely majesty. But shame upon it! Her feeble, worthless, and degen'rate sons

Yes, what say'st thou of them? they also are The fragments of a brave and mighty race, Left on this lonely rock.

No, blast them! on its frowning sides they cluster Like silly sea-fowl from their burrow'd holes, Who, staring senseless on th' invaders toil, Stretch out their worthless necks, and cry "caw! caw!" O, Paleologus! how art thou left, Thou and thy little band of valiant friends, To set your manly bosoms 'gainst the tide! Ye are the last sparks of a wasted pyre Which soon shall be trode out.— We are the last green bough of an old oak, Blasted and bare: the lovlier do ye seem For its wan barrenness; but to its root The axe is brought, and with it ye must fall.— Ye areO God! it grasps my swelling throat To think of what ye are.