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In this dim cave a druid sleeps,

Where stops the passing gale to moan; The rock he hollowed o'er him weeps, And cold drops wear the fretted stone.

In this dim cave, of different creed,

A hermit's holy ashes rest:

The school-boy finds the frequent bead,
Which many a formal matin blest.

That truant-time full well I know,
When here I brought, in stolen hour,
The Druid's magic Misletoe,

The holy hermit's Passion-flower.

The offerings on the mystic stone
Pensive I laid, in thought profound,
When from the cave a deepening groan
Issued, and froze me to the ground.

I hear it still-Dost thou not hear?
Does not thy haunted fancy start?
The sound still vibrates through mine ear-
The horror rushes on my heart.

Unlike to living sounds it came,

Unmixed, unmelodised with breath;

But, grinding through some scrannel frame, Creaked from the bony lungs of death.

I hear it still" Depart," it cries;

"No tribute bear to shades unblest:

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Know, here a bloody Druid lies,

"Who was not nursed at Nature's breast.

"Associate he with demons dire,

"O'er human victims held the knife, "And pleased to see the babe expire, "Smiled grimly o'er its quivering life.

"Behold his crimson-streaming hand "Erect!-his dark, fixed, murderous eye!"

In the dim cave I saw him stand;

And my heart died-I felt it die.

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I see him still-Dost thou not see

The haggard eye-ball's hollow glare? And gleams of wild ferocity

Dart through the sable shade of hair?

What meagre form behind him moves,
With eye that rues th' invading day;
And wrinkled aspect wan, that proves
The mind to pale remorse a prey?

What wretched-Hark-the voice replies,

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"Boy, bear these idle honours hence!

For, here a guilty hermit lies,

"Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense.

"Though Nature lent him powers to aid "The moral cause, the mutual weal; Those powers he sunk in this dim shade, The desperate suicide of zeal.

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