The Choirs angelic
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he virtuous Dead, demand a grateful Tear— But cease thy Grief a while, thy Tears forbear, Not thine alone, the Sorrow I relate, Thy blooming Off-spring feel the mighty Weight; Thus, from the Bosom of the tender Vine, The Branches torn, fall, wither, sink supine. Now flies the Soul, thro' Æther unconfin'd.
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