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THE PHOENIX AND THE DOVE.

[The Hint taken from the French of Millevoix.]

wings are bright with the rainbow's dyes, My birth is amid perfume; My death-song is music's sweetest sighs; The sun himself lights my tomb. My flight is traced in the clouds above; The grave teems with life for me; I stand alone—Alone! cried the dove— Oh, I then can but pity thee!