Page:National Lyrics.pdf/127

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Until that sullen boding knell Flung out from every fane, On harp and lip, and spirit, fell, With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then, In the wild deer's forest far! No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men, Might guide him, as a star. And woe for him whose wakeful soul, With lone aspirings fill'd, Would have liv'd o'er some immortal scroll, While the sounds of earth were still'd!

And yet a deeper woe For the watcher by the bed, Where the fondly lov'd in pain lay low, In pain and sleepless dread!