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But here the Nymph’s triumphant measure dies, shifting to sadden’d murmur low and slow, she sings ’mid tears and ill-suppressèd sighs the mighty Gestes that did no grat’itude know. “Oh, Belisarius! thou who aye shalt rise in ninefold Choir, and ever nobler grow, if Mars dishonour’d didst behold in thee one to console thee here thy Shade shall see!