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Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born; Around her path a vision's glow is cast, Back, back, her lost one comes, in hues of morn!* For her the gulf is filled—the dark night fled; Whose mystery parts the living and the dead.

And she can pour forth in such converse high, All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong, Oh! lonelier far, perchance, thy destiny, And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay throng, Than hers—the queen of that majestic gloom, The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb!