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Here the scathed trees with leaves half-drest, Shade no soft songster's secret nest, Whose spring-notes soothe the pensive ear; But high the croaking cormorant flies, And mews and awkshawks [sic] with clamorous cries Tire the lone echoes of these caverns drear.

Perchance among the ruins grey Some widow'd mourner loves to stray, Marking the melancholy main Where once, afar she could discern O'er the white waves his sail return Who never, never now, returns again!