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Bright children of the bard! o'er this green dell Pass once again, and light it with your spell!

Imogen! fair Fidele! meekly blending In patient grief, "a smiling with a sigh;" And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky; Thou of the soft low voice!—thou art not gone! Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone.

And come to me!—sing me thy willow-strain, Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain, Undimm'd, unquenchable affection lies; Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, As a frail hyacinth, by showers o'erborne.