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 Perhaps a prospect brightly color'd o'er, Yet not with brightness that we loved before; And dull and dark the brightest hue appears To eyes like ours, surcharged and dim with tears.

Oft, oft we wish the winding road were past, And yon supernal summit gain'd at last; Where all that gradual change removed, is found At once, for ever, as you look around; Where every scene by tender eyes survey'd, And lost and wept for, to their gaze is spread— No tear to dim the sight, no shade to fall, But Heaven's own sunshine lighting, charming all.

Farewell!—a common word—and yet how drear And strange it soundeth as I write it here! How strange that thou a place of death shouldst fill Thy brain unlighted, and thine heart grown chill! And dark the eye, whose plausive glance to draw, Incited Nature brake her tyrant's law!