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Rh Soft music, my poor brain is wild, And I am weak like a nursling child, Though my soul with grief is gray and old.

Weep not at thine own words, though they must make Me weep. What is thy tale?

I fear 'twill shake Thy gentle heart with tears. Thou well Rememberest when we met no more, And, though I dwelt with Lionel, That friendless caution pierced me sore With grief; a wound my spirit bore. Indignantly, but when he died With him lay dead both hope and pride.

Alas! all hope is buried now. But then men dreamed the aged earth Was labouring in that mighty birth,