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The cold, cold dews of haftening death,
The dim, departing eye,
He view'd and did not die.
He saw her spirit mount in air,
Its kindred skies to seek!
it would not break.
The mournful Muse forbears to tell
How wretched ELDRED died :
The vat distress to hide.
Yet Heaven's decrees are just and wise,
And man is born to bear, Joy is the portion of the skies,
Beneath them, all is care.
* In the celebrated Pi&ure of the Sacrifice of Iphigenia, Timanthes having exhausted every image of grief in the by-standers, threw a veil over the face of the father, whose forrow he was utterly unable to express. Plin. Book xxxv.
Τ Η Ε Ε Ν D.
The annual wound allur'd
To view Sabrina's filver waves below,