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Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round hier burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball !
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found !
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,

Forever singing, as they shine,
“ The hand that made us is divine."

DIRGE FROM CYMBELINE.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the ow o' the great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat;

To thee, the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash,

Nor the all-dreaded tliunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.

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