LXXVI. But this is not my theme; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for awhile--a passing guest, Where he became a being,--whose desire Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest.
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