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But there are breasts that bleed with thee in woe, that glory cannot quell;

And shuddering hear of victory,

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less?

When cease to hear thy cherished name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.

Alas! for them, though not for thee,

They cannot choose but weep the more;

Deep for the dead the grief must be
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.

THE END.

SIEGE OF CORINTH.

A POEM.

PARIS IN A.

A POEM.

, LONDON.PRINTED FOR JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.

THE

SIEGE OF CORINTH

"Guns, Trumpets, Blunderbusses, Drums, and Thunder."

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