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Rh

I have seen that dear harp rolled With gems of the East and bands of gold; But it never was sweeter than when set With leaves of the deep-blue Violet! And when the grave shall open for me,— I care not how soon that time may be,— Never a rose shall grow on that tomb, It breathes too much of hope and of bloom;— But there be that flower's meek regret, The bending and deep-blue Violet!