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On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian Mount, There stands a lone and melancholy tree, Whose aged branches to the midnight blast Make solemn music, pluck its darkest bough, Ere yet th' unwholesome night dew be exhaled, And weeping, wreath it round thy Poet's tomb: Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow, Pick stinking henbane, and the dusky flowers Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit; These, with stopped nostril, and glove-guarded hand, Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine Th' illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility!"
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