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Rh E'en winter softens into sunny spring;— But thou, pale melancholy season! thou Alone departest in thine hour of wrath?

XIV.

How chang'd the scene from what it once had been! Now loneliness hung o'er it like a cloud! The myrtle bower they'd twin'd so gracefully, No trace of it was left; and that white rose, That wreath'd so fondly round the blasted pine, Was gone—the tree stood now quite desolate. Beneath, half-hidden by the briars round, And green with moss, there was a broken harp: Time had been, when those now so silent chords Were sweet as hope's soft prophecy of love; Now his heart died within him, as the breeze Waked, faintly wak'd, the few remaining strings.