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Man, who panting toils O'er slippery steeps; or, trembling, treads the verge Of yawning gulfs, from which the headlong plunge Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, And marks ye in your placid loveliness, Fearless, yet frail; and, clasping his chill hands, Blesses your pencil'd beauty. Mid the pomp Of mountain-summits, towering to the skies, And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your fragrance on the frost-wing'd gale, And freer dreams of Heaven.