XXVII.
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oon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'dHer soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; 240Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
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