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Chained by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath, Before the thing that, in the might of death, Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay— A sleeper, dreaming not!—a youth with hair Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!) O'er his cold brow: no shadow of decay Had touched those pale bright features—yet he wore A mien of other days, a garb of yore. Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim, As if through many tears, through vigils long, Through weary strainings:—all had been for him! Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead, In his youth's flower—and she, the living, stood With her grey hair, whence hue and gloss had fled— And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood Had long since ebb'd—a meeting sad and strange! —Oh! are not meetings in this world of change Sadder than partings oft? She stood there, still, And mute, and gazing, all her soul to fill