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He told the lay of Christabelle, He sung the song of Genevieve; The sweetest note that ever waked A silent summer eve.

He roused our English lute from sleep, And hung it, with a votive vow, For worship and the following, On the green myrtle bough.

Still o’er the poet’s haunted grave Its melancholy murmurs sweep; Oh! Lovely is the face of Death By music lulled to sleep.