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Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, And in his eye the trembling tear, Revealed his spirit's trance; How oft, those echoing halls along, Thy thrilling voice has swelled the song, Tradition wild of other days, Or troubadour's heroic lays Or legend of romance! Oh! many an hour has there been thine, That memory's pencil oft shall dress In softer shades, and tints that shine In mellowed loveliness! While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears, Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret, The sunshine of thine early years, Scarce deemed so radiant—till it set! The cloudless peace unprized, till gone, The bliss, till vanished, hardly known!

On rock and turret, wood and hill, The fading moonbeams linger still;