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thee to my mystic Feast, Each one thou lovest is gathered there; Yet put thou on a mourning robe, And bind the cypress in thy hair.

The hall is vast, and cold, and drear; The board with faded flowers is spread; Shadows of beauty flit around, But beauty from which bloom has fled;

And music echoes from the walls, But music with a dirge-like sound; And pale and silent are the guests, And every eye is on the ground.

Here, take this cup, tho' dark it seem, And drink to human hopes and fears; 'Tis from their native element The cup is filled—it is of tears.

What! turnest thou with averted brow? Thou scornest this poor feast of mine; And askest for a purple robe, Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.

In vain, the veil has left thine eyes, Or such these would have seemed to thee; Before thee is the Feast of Life, But life in its reality!