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And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine-
"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure "Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure? "Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust! "The moth survives you, and are ye more just? "Things of a day! you wither ere the night, "Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light."
Printed by W. Dugdale, Green Street, Leicester Square.