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Yet, mortal, pause!—within thy mind is laid Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine; —Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear A pyramid so fair?

Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd, So it but sweep along the torrent's trace, And fill the hollow channels of the past; And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf, Rase the one master-grief!

Yet pause once more!—all, all thy soul hath known, Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade! Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made? No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall? —Think—wouldst thou part with all?