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'Midst those mighty fathers dead, In soft beauty thou wast led; When before the shrine thy form Quiver'd to some bosom storm, When, like harp-strings with a sigh Breaking in mid-harmony, On thy lip the murmurs low Died with love's unfinish'd vow; When, like scatter'd rose-leaves, fled From thy cheek each tint of red, And the light forsook thine eye, And thy head sank heavily; Was that drooping but th' excess Of thy spirit's blessedness? Or did some deep feeling's might, Folded in thy heart from sight, With a sudden tempest shower, Earthward bear thy life's young flower? —Who shall tell us?—on thy tongue Silence, and for ever, hung!