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Yon gloomy ruffian, gash'd and gored,
Was he, whose fatal skill First beat the plough-share to a sword,
And taught the art to kill.
Behind liim skulks a shade, bereft
Of fondly-worshipp'd Fame ; He built the Pyramids, — but left
No stone to tell his name.
Wlio is the chief, with visage dark
As tempests when they roar ? — The first who push'd his daring bark
Beyond the timid shore.
Through storms of death and seas of graves
He steer'd with stedfast eye ; His path was on the desert waves,
His compass in the sky.
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