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And all that vanity effaced Has long been fresh with tears. The red torch held by yonder monk, He holds to see me die; 'T will sink before the morning, sure, And even so shall I. And yet a voice is in my ear, A hope is in my heart; And I must have them both from thee Before I can depart. Alas! for festivals that leave But lassitude behind; For feelings deaden'd, gifts misused, A worn and vacant mind, That dreads its own thoughts, yet pursues The vanities of yore; Seeks pleasure's shade, though pleasure's self Has long since been no more. The weariness of future hours, The sorrow for the past, Desire of change, craving for joys, Cling to us to the last. I turn me to my days of youth, My last thoughts fain would be Of purer feelings, better hopes— I dare not say of thee. That beautiful, that blessed time, 'Mid all that has been mine; I never knew such happiness, Nor such a love as thine." Her pale lips closed, inaudible The faint low accents came;