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 Yes! I must die! my spring has fled Long ere its time, and winter's frost Withers me with its icy breath, And warns me that all hope is lost Laid low by unrelenting death, Sweet flowers and herbs my corse shall deck, But ah! my sad and frustrate life Fruitage of deeds must ever lack. Descend, ye leaves ephemeral, And cover me as I am dying, Let not my mother's vision fall Where breathless, motionless, I'm lying: But if my love comes hither, when Fate can inflict no further sorrow, To weep my hapless lot—oh! then Some comfort shall my spirit borrow.

No more he said, but thence departed, His wanderings there for ever o'er. When from the tree the last leaf started Destiny tortured him no more. Beneath an oak his corse was laid; But she whom he had loved so dearly Came not the silence to invade Which reigned about his grave austerely; Save when the shepherd went his round The solitude was void of sound.

1895