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FROM Christ-Church graves, across the way, | |
A dismal, horrid place is found, | |
Where rushing winds exert their sway, | |
And Greenland winter chills the ground: | |
No blossoms there are seen to bloom, | 5 |
No sun pervades the dreary gloom! | |
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The people of that stormy place | |
In penance for some ancient crime | |
Are held in a too narrow space, | |
Like those beyond the bounds of time, | 10 |
Who, darkened still, perceive no day, | |
While seasons waste and moons decay. | |
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Cold as the shade that wraps them round, | |
This icy region prompts our fear; | |
And he who treads this frozen ground | 15 |
Shall curse the chance that brought him here, | |
The slippery mass predicts his fate, | |
A broken arm, a wounded pate. | |
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When August sheds his sultry beam, | |
May Celia never find this place, | 20 |
Nor see, upon the clouded stream, | |
The fading summer in her face; | |
And may I neer discover there | |
The gray that mingles with my hair. | |
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The watchman sad, whose drowsy call | 25 |
Proclaims the hour forever fled, | |
Avoids this path to Plutos hall; | |
For who would wish to wake the dead! | |
Still let them sleep,it is no crime, | |
They pay no tax to know the time. | 30 |
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No coaches hence, in glittering pride, | |
Convey their freight to take the air; | |
No gods nor heroes here reside, | |
Nor powdered beau, nor lady fair, | |
All, all to warmer regions flee, | 35 |
And leave these glooms to Towne and me. | |
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