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No voice, well-known through many a day,

To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,

Is still like distant music heard.
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown Dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in death That she, whom he for years had known And lov'd, and might have call’d his own,

Was safe from this foul midnight's breath: Safe in her father's princely halls, Where the cool airs from fountain falls, Freshly perfum'd by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India's land, Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

But see, who yonder comes by stealth,

This melancholy bower to seek, Like a young envoy, sent by Health,

With rosy gifts upon her cheek? 'Tis shefar off, through moonlight dim,

He knew his own betrothed bride, She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside!

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Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.
Ah! once, how little did he think
An hour would come, when he should shrink
With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms, that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim!
And now he yields—now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone-
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came
Near his unask'd or without shame.
“Oh! let me only breathe the air,

“ The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee, “ And, whether on its wings it bear

“ Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me! * There, drink my tears, while yet they fall,

“Would that my bosom's blood were balm, “ And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,

“ To give thy brow one minute's calm. “ Nay, turn not from me that dear face

“ Am I not thine-thy own lov'd bride ** The one, the chosen one, whose place, “ In life or death is by thy side!

“ Think'st thou that she, whose only light,

“ In this dim world, from thee hath shone, “ Could bear the long, the cheerless night,

“ That must be hers, when thou art gone? “ That I can live, and let thee go, “ Who art my life itself? No, no“ When the stem dies, the leaf that grew “Out of its heart must perish too! “ Then turn to me, my own love, turn, “ Before like thee I fade and burn;

Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
“ The last pure life that lingers there!"
She fails—she sinksmas dies the lamp
In charnal airs or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes!
One struggle—and his pain is past

Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss the maiden gives, one last,

Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

Sleep,” said the PERI, as.softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast; . “ Sleep on, in visions of odour rest, “ In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd « The enchanted pile of that holy bird,

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR. LENOX
TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

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SHE SHOOK HER SPARKLING WREATH AND SHED
STICH LUSTRE CER LACH PALY LACE
THAT LIKE TWO LOVELY SAINTS THEY SEEMD,
UPON THE EVE OF DOOMSDAY TAKEN
FROM THEIR DIM GRAVES.

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