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��THE MOLE-HILL.
��Tell me, thou dust beneath my feet, Thou dust that once hadst breath !
Tell me how many mortals meet In this small hill of death ?
The Mole, that scoops with curious toil
Her subterranean bed. Thinks not she ploughs a human soil,
And mines among the dead.
But, O ! where'er she turns the ground
My kindred earth I see ;
Once every atom of this mound
Lived, breathed, and felt like me. 9
�� �
