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Tho' prison’d there, my dust too I reclaim,
(To dust when drop proud nature's proudest spheres)
And live intire. Death is the crown of life:
Were death deny'd, poor man would live in vain;
Were death deny'd, to live would not be life;
Were death deny’d, ev'n fools would wish to die.
Death wounds to cure : we fall; we rise; we reign!
Spring from our fetters; fasten in the skies;
Where blooming Eden withers in our sight:
Death gives us more than was in Eden lost.

When shall I die to vanity, pain, death?
When shall I die?-When shall I live for ever?

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J. Nagle se

rose, He


Heburst the bars of Prath,
Lify your

u overlasting gates
Ind give the King of Glory di come in,



London; Pub? Jan'1,1802, by Vernor 8 Hood, and the other Proprietors.

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A MUCH indebted muse, O Yorke! intrudes.
Amid the smiles of fortune, and of youth,
Thine ear is patient of a serious song.
How deep implanted in the breast of man
The dread of death! I sing its sov'reign cure.

Why start at death? Where is he? Death arriv'd, Is

past; not come, or gone, he's never here. Ere hope, sensation fails ; black-boding man Receives, not suffers, death's tremendous blow. The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave; The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm; These are the bugbears of a winter's eve,

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