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And, worst of all, the earthly judgment pass'd By minds whose native clay is unredeem'd By aught of heaven, whose every thought falls foul Plague spot on beauty which they cannot feel, Tainting all that it touches with itself. O dream of fame, what hast thou been to me But the destroyer of life's calm content! I feel so more than ever, that thy sway Is weaken'd over me. Once I could find A deep and dangerous delight in thee; But that is gone. I am too much awake. Light has burst o'er me, but not morning's light; 'T is such light as will burst upon the tomb, When all but judgment 's over. Can it be, That these fine impulses, these lofty thoughts, Burning with their own beauty, are but given