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And though the music of thy life be broken, Or changed in every chord, since he is gone, Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone! I call thee blest!

For in thy heart there is a holy spot, As 'mid the waste an Isle of fount and palm, For ever green!—the world's breath enters not, The passion-tempests may not break its calm; 'Tis thine, all thine!

Thither, in trust unbaffled, mayst thou turn, From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn, That, fill'd with waters of sweet memory, lies In its own shrine.

Thou hast thy home!—there is no power in change To reach that temple of the past;—no sway,