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Rh

I felt, before I fear'd, my dread, I turn'd and saw the old man dead! Without a struggle or a sigh, And is it thus the righteous die? There he lay in the sun, calm, pale, As if life had been like a tale Which, whatsoe'er its sorrows past, Breaks off in hope and peace at last.

I stretch'd him by the olive tree, Where his death, there his grave should be; The place was a thrice hallowed spot, There had he drawn his golden lot Of immortality; 'twas blest, A green and holy place of rest.