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��Or tone of tender pity were to him A dialect unknown, o'er whose dim eye The distant vision of his cabin rude, With all its echoing voices, all the rush Of its cool, flowing waters, brought a pang To which keen death was slight.
But now the scene
Once proudly peopled with the gods of earth Spreads unempurpled, unimpasion'd forth, While, curtain'd with her ancient glory, - - Rome Slumbereth, like one o'erwearied.
�� �
