Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful
Evn he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the genrous tear he pays;
from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Lifes idle business
at one gasp be oer,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
VITAL spark of heavnly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingring,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heavn opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
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