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Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair wav'd As if triumphantly. She press'd her child, In its bright slumber, to her beating heart, And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile Above the sound of waters, high and clear, Wafting a wild proud strain, her song of death.

Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream and free! Father of ancient waters,5 roll! and bear our lives with thee! The weary bird that storms have toss'd, would seek the sunshine's calm, And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to the woods of balm.

Roll on!—my warrior's eye hath look'd upon another’s face, And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam’s trace;