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��THE DIAL.
��1 HIS shadow on the Dial's face,
That steals from day to day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away ; — This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began, Hath held its course sublime ; —
What is it ? Mortal Man !
It is the scythe of Time : — A shadow only to the eye ;
Yet, in its calm career, It levels all beneath the sky ;
And still, through each succeeding year.
�� �
