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Tho' prison’d there, my dust too I reclaim,
J. Nagle se
Heburst the bars of Prath,
u overlasting gates
A MUCH indebted muse, O Yorke! intrudes.
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,