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An epic poem. 43
Thou feefl: the flaming fhield of the king; His face darkens be-
tween his locks. He beholds the wide roUing of Erin.
Does not Carril behold that tomb, befide the roaring ftream ?
Three flones lift their grey heads, beneath a bending oak. A king
is lowly laid : give thou his foul to the wind. He is the brother
of Cathmor ! open his airy hall. — Let thy fong be a ftream of joy
to Cairbar's darkened ghoft»
G2 TEMORA;

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