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'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rore. |
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'Tis the last rose of summer, |
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To Ladies' eyes around, boy |
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'Twas one of those dreams that by music are brought, |
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Weep on, weep on, your hour is past |
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We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast. |
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What life like that of the bard can be |
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What the bee is to the floweret |
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When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast lov'd. |
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When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow |
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Whene'er I see those smiling eyes |
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When first I met thee, warm and young |
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When he, who adores thee, has left but the name |
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When in death I shall calm recline |
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When thro' life unblest We rove., |
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While gazing on the morn's light |
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While History's Muse the memorial was keeping |
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Yes, sad one of Sion—if closely resembling |
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You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride |
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