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however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud
Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:
O! were there an island,
Tho' ever so wild
Where woman might smile, and
No man be beguil'd, &c.
Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rythmical number
Which lull'd him to rest?"
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
Sweet was that error--ev'n with us the breath
Of science dims the mirror of our joy--
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy--
For what (to them) availeth it to know
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