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162 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear
The one loved name. |
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No,—that hallowed form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced ; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.
O 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream. |
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O BREATHE NOT HIS NAME
O BREATHE not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid : Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. |
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But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. |
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