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Bright visions of ideal grace That the young poet's dreams inflame, Were not more lovely than thy face; Were not more perfect than thy frame.

Wit, that no sufferings could impair, Was thine, and thine those mental powers Of force to chase the fiends that tear From Fancy's hands her budding flowers.

O'er what, my angel friend, thou wert, Dejected Memory loves to mourn; Regretting still that tender heart, Now withering in a distant urn!