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— Ah ! soon, beneath the inevitable blow, I too sliall lie in dust and darkness low.

Then Time, the Conqueror, will suspend

His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb. Whose moving shadow shall portend

Each frail beholder's doom. O'er the wide earth's illumined space,

Though Time's triumphant flight be shewn. The truest index on its face

Points from the church-yard stone.

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