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CANTO II. FINGAL. 03
Burthen with years ; for to the heart,
Whence ev'ry tremblingjoy hath fled,
Where ev'ry bright'ning hope is dead.
What loveliness can life impart ?
E'en when young pleasure's pulse beats high,
The warrior to the stroke of death
Yields his stern strength without a sigh.
But oh ! when childless, when each breath
His ling'ring moments loads with pain,
Surely the flames of death bring gain.
Seek no more words ; — this soul is brave,
Nor shrinks nor shudders from the grave.'
" No grave shall hold thee — heav'nly ire
Be shower'd upon thee, dark and dire,
And on thy house, and on thy name.
With heav'n's dread curses to the flame,
Him we consign, who impious trod
The sanctuary of heav'n's high god.

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