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 * Leave nothing of this heavenly sight
 * But loathsomeness and ruin?
 * Spare nothing but a gloomy theme,

On which the lightest heart might moralize?
 * Or is it only a sweet slumber
 * Stealing o'er sensation,
 * Which the breath of roseate morning
 * Chaseth into darkness?
 * Will Ianthe wake again,
 * And give that faithful bosom joy
 * Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch
 * Light, life, and rapture from her smile?


 * Yes! she will wake again,

Although her glowing limbs are motionless,
 * And silent those sweet lips,
 * Once breathing eloquence
 * That might have soothed a tyger's rage,

Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror.
 * Her dewy eyes are closed,
 * And on their lids, whose texture fine
 * Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath,
 * The baby Sleep is pillowed:
 * Her golden tresses shade
 * The bosom's stainless pride,
 * Curling like tendrils of the parasite
 * Around a marble column.


 * Hark! whence that rushing sound?
 * 'Tis like the wondrous strain
 * That round a lonely ruin swells,