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The ash 'midst rugged clefts unveil, Its coral clusters to the gale, And autumn shed a warmer bloom, O'er the rich heath and glowing broom. But thy light footstep there no more, Each path, each dingle shall explore; In vain may smile each green recess, —Who now shall pierce its loneliness? The stream through shadowy glens may stray, —Who now shall trace its glistening way? In solitude, in silence deep, Shrined 'midst her rocks, shall echo sleep, No lute's wild swell again shall rise, To wake her mystic melodies. All soft may blow the mountain air —It will not wave thy graceful hair! The mountain-rose may bloom and die, —It will not meet thy smiling eye! But like those scenes of vanished days, Shall others ne'er delight;