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 HERE’S one who long will think of thee,
 * Though thou art cold in death’s last sleep;

There’s one will love thy memory
 * Till his own grave the night-dews steep.

And if no outward tears he weep,
 * And none his silent sorrows know,

Still doth his heart its vigils keep
 * Beside the spot where thou art low.

Sad was thy mortal pilgrimage,
 * And bitter tears thine eyes have shed;

But now the storm hath spent its rage;
 * The turf is green above thy head,

And, loveliest of the buried dead,
 * Sweet may thy dreamless slumbers be;

Thy grave the summer’s bridal bed,
 * Her evening winds thy minstrelsy.

As withered on thy cheek the rose,
 * I cursed the hour when love betrayed thee;

’Twas mine, in death, thine eyes to close,
 * And watch till on the bier they laid thee.