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Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.

By thee, sad Love, and by thy sister, Fear, Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought To vail that haunting shadow, still too near, Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought, And, where the board was fraught With wine and myrtles in the summer bower, Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power.

But that dark night is closed: and o'er the dead, Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown, And where the mountain heath a couch has spread, And, settling oft on some grey-lettered stone, The redbreast warbles lone; And the wild bee's deep, drowsy murmurs pass Like a low thrill of harp-strings through the grass: