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Such was the picture Fancy drew, In hneaments divinely true; The Muse, by her mysterious art. Had sliewn her Hkeness to my heart, And every faithful feature brought O'er the clear mirror of my thought. — But she was waning to the tomb; The worm of death was in her bloom Yet as the mortal frame declined. Strong through the ruins rose the mind : As the dim moon, when night ascends, Slow in the east the darkness rends, Through melting clouds, by gradual gleams, Pours the mild splendour of her beams, Then bursts in triumph o'er the pole, Free as a disembodied soul ! Thus while the veil of flesh decay'd, Her beauties brighten'd through the shade; Charms which her lowly heart conceal'd In nature's weakness were reveal'd;
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