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52 FINGAL. e
Her wasted form, her faded bloom,
Seem sinking rapid to the tomb.
In the keen anguish of his soul,
Before Beal's shrine then Kerthal stood, —
* God of the gods, thy thunders roll.
Thy lightnings fly ; but not for good,'
Wildly he cried :— ' thy ways are dire,
Thou dreadful, thou destroying god ;
A^e thou hast stricken in thine ire,
The broken with thine iron rod.'
Then spake the god's high priest, and said,
* Old warrior, well thy blasphemies
Might, indeed, call upon thine head
The angriest vengeance of the skies ;
But Beal is merciful as great.
He wills, that at his sacred fane
Thy child in pray'r alone should wait,
And haply hope and health regain.'
What would not sorrowing love resign

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