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And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
A Spirit pass'd before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveiPd—
Deep sleep came down on ev'ry eye save mine—.
And there it stood,—all formless—but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake:
ff Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
ON THE DEATH
SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
There is a tear for all that die,
But nations swell the funeral cry,
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
In vain their bones unburied lie,
A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue: The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.
For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hushed, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth
The goblet's tributary round.
A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not die the death they chose?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
And early valour, glowing, find