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136 Sits like an exil'd monarch: fearles thence I launch into the trackles deeps of pace, Where, burning round, ten thouand uns appear, Of elder beam; which ak no leave to hine Of our terretrial tar, nor borrow light From the proud regent of our canty day; Sons of the morning, firt-born of creation, And only les than who marks their track, And guides their fiery wheels. Here mut I top, Or is there aught beyond? What hand uneen Impels me onward thro' the glowing orbs Of habitable nature, far remote, To the dread confines of eternal night, To olitudes of vat unpeopled pace, The dearts of creation, wide and wild; Where embryo ytems and unkindled uns Sleep in the tomb of chaos? fancy droops, And