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Methought that conscious beauty threw Upon her cheek its own sweet hue, Its loveliness of morning red; I woke, and gazed upon the dead. I mark'd the fearful stains which now Were dark'ning o'er the once white brow, The livid colours that declare The soul no longer dwelleth there. The gaze of even my fond eye, Seem'd almost like impiety, As it were sin for looks to be   On what the earth alone should see. I thought upon the loathsome doom Of the grave's cold, corrupted gloom;— Oh, never shall the vile worm rest A lover on thy lip and breast!