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 From their most lofty communings with heaven, To poor mortality!—that passing chill Recall'd those bitter feelings that attend Career half follow'd, and the goal unwon: He thought upon his few and unknown years, How much his power, how little it had done; And then again the pale lip was compress'd With high resolve, the dark eye flash'd with hope To snatch a laurel from the grasp of death, For the green memory of an early grave.

 

beauty! not a fault is there; No queen of Grecian line E'er braided more luxuriant hair O'er forehead more divine. 