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Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine, Soft, soft the river flows, Wearing the shadow of thy line, The gloom of alder-boughs; And in the midst, a richer hue, One gliding vein of Heaven's own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard— The whisper of the reed, The plashing trout, the rustling bird, The scythe upon the mead; Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, There steals a step which mortals fear.

'Tis not the stag that comes to lave, At noon, his panting breast; 'Tis not the bittern, by the wave Seeking her sedgy nest; The air is filled with summer's breath, The young flowers laugh—yet look! 'tis Death!