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That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill'd With peace, if human love hath ever still'd The yearning human breast."

"Away, fond youth!—An idle quest is thine; These have no trophy, no memorial shrine; I know not of their place! 'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low, Have pass'd, and left no trace.

"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, And the wild sounds of melancholy rills, Their covering turf may bloom; But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers,— Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, Or poet hail'd their tomb."

"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell! Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell That which I pine to know!