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to the shades of him who sleeps Beneath yon tarn’s aërial steeps! Far nobler is his tomb Than all the pomp that waits the great— The tears of well dissembled hate, The dark procession’s gloom, The solemn knell at midnight toll’d, The glorious requiem sadly roll’d From yon majestic pile, Whose awful echoes wildly spread, Then fade (like voices of the dead) Beneath the moonbeam’s smile!
 * But though the despot’s vanish’d power

May claim the pageant of an hour—