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Yet here thy step has often been, And here thy songs were sung; Here were thy beating heart and lute Chord after chord unstrung; Thy dying breath was on this air— It hath not left its music there.

No:—nameless is the lowly spot Where that young poet sleeps; No glory lights its funeral lamp, No pity on it weeps; There weeds may grow, or flowers may bloom, For his is a forgotten tomb.

And yet how often those dark pines, Once heard thy twilight song; 'Twas written on those autumn leaves The wild winds bear along. Of all who gaze on Tivoli, Who is there that remembers thee?

That dark-eyed lady, she who taught Thy most impassioned tone; The spirit of thy poetry— Her fate has been thine own: A weary brow, a faded cheek, A heart that only beat to break.