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Night and all her sickly dews , Her spectres wan , and birds of boding cry , o He gives to range the dreary sky ; Till down the eastern cliffs afaro Hyperion'so march they spy , and glittering shafts of 50 war . II .
Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around : Every shade and hallowed fountain 75 Murmured deep a solemn sound : Till the sad Nine , in Greece's evil hour , Left their Parnassuso for the Latian plains .
Till full before his fearless eyes The portals nine of hell arise . 10 15 O O 20 Right against the eastern gate , o By the moss - grown pile he sate ; Where long of yore to sleep was laid The dust of the prophetic maid .
25 Till from out the hollow ground Slowly breathed a sullen sound . PROPHETESS 30 What call unknown , what charms presume To break the quiet of the tomb ? Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite , And drags me from the realms of night ?
Nor wash his visage in the stream , Nor see the sun's departing beam , Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile , Flaming on the funeral pile . Now my weary lips I close : Leave me , leave me to repose . 70 ODIN O 75 Yet a while my call ...
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LibraryThing ReviewUser Review - keylawk - LibraryThing
Reprint of what may once have been one of the most familiar poems in English from the 18th century. At a time when few could read in England, one of its most educated sons, and the companion of Horace ... Read full review