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The autumn gale Doth sob and wail Like viols eerie; Its monotone, So like a groan, My soul doth weary.

And hark! a bell That's like a knell For dead hope tolling! Then sorrows past Arise and fast The tears are rolling!

Sad sport of grief, Like a dead leaf I shrink and wither; No refuge nigh I vainly fly Hither and thither.