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Thou hast looked on Death, and smiled! Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form, Thro' the waves of the fight, thro' the rush of the storm, On field, and flood, and wild!

No!—Thou art the victor, Death! Thou comest, and where is that which spoke, From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke? —Gone with the fleeting breath!

Thou comest—and what is left Of all that loved us, to say if aught Yet loves—yet answers the burning thought Of the spirit lone and reft?

Silence is where thou art! Silently there must kindred meet, No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, No bounding of heart to heart!