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Poem by William Collins
Thou who such weary Length hast past, Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last? Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted Cell, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell? Or in some hollow'd Seat, 'Gainst which the big Waves beat, Hear drowning Sea-men's Cries in Tempests brought! Dark Pow'r, with shudd'ring meek submitted Thought Be mine, to read the Visions old, Which thy awak'ning Bards have told: And lest thou meet my blasted View, Hold each strange Tale devoutly true; Ne'er be I found, by Thee o'eraw'd, In that thrice-hallow'd Eve abroad, When Ghosts, as Cottage-Maids believe, Their pebbled Beds permitted leave, And Gobblins haunt from Fire, or Fen, Or Mine, or Flood, the Walks of Men! O Thou whose Spirit most possest The sacred Seat of Shakespear's Breast! By all that from thy Prophet broke, In thy Divine Emotions spoke: Hither again thy Fury deal, Teach me but once like Him to feel: His Cypress Wreath my Meed decree, And I, O Fear, will dwell with Thee!
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