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30 Kneeling, with many tears and prayers, Made me accept a purse of gold, Half of the earnings she had kept To refuge her when weak and old.

With woe, which never sleeps or slept, I wander now. 'Tis a vain thought— But on yon alp, whose snowy head 'Mid the azure air is islanded, (We see it o'er the flood of cloud, Which sunrise from its eastern caves Drives, wrinkling into golden waves, Hung with its precipices proud, From that grey stone where first we met) There, now who knows the dead feel nought? Should be my grave; for he who yet Is my soul's soul, once said: "'Twere sweet 'Mid stars and lightnings to abide, And winds and lulling snows, that beat With their soft flakes the mountain wide, When weary meteor lamps repose, And languid storms their pinions close: