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And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine! Oh sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress'd, Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well, as on my faithful breast!"

"Urge me no more! a blight hath fallen upon my summer years! I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears; But take at least the lute I lov'd, and guard it for my sake, And sometimes, from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake! Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own sweet vesper hymn, And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim."