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«ANTO ij. FINGAL. 37
'Twas not the look of mortal man,
For chilly thro' these veins it ran,
And rais'd a form of spectral hue
That now distracts this aching view.
Is it not good to be laid low ?
To rest from pain, to rest from woe ?
Then why should, of the slumb'ring throngs,
One rise to frown for earthly wrongs ?
Why should the dead desert the grave
To appal with ghastliness the brave ?"
" Oh king," dark Innismone return'd,
Such fever'd fantasies be spurn'd ;
Collect thy pow'rful soul — regain
Thy firmness, and forget the slain ;
Let the dark dwellers of the tombs
Rise trembling on the midnight storms ;
Glory great Marthon's path illumes,
And in full day the bright wreath forms

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