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34 This is ure the haunt of fairies, &emsp;In yon cool alcove they play; Care can never cros the threhold, &emsp;Care was only made for day.

Far from hence be noiy clamour, &emsp;Sick digut and anxious fear; Pining grief and wating anguih &emsp;Never keep their vigils here.

Tell no tales of heeted pectres &emsp;Riing from the quiet tomb; Fairer forms this cell hall viit, &emsp;Brighter viions gild the gloom.

Choral ongs and prightly voices &emsp;Echo from her cell hall call; Sweeter, weeter than the murmur &emsp;Of the ditant water-fall.