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None!—as it gleams from the queen-like head, Not one 'midst throngs will say, "A life hath been like a rain-drop shed,   For that pale quivering ray."

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought! —And are not those like thee, Who win for earth the gems of thought? O wrestler with the sea!

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, Where the passion-fountains burn, Gathering the jewels far below From many a buried urn:

Wringing from lava-veins the fire, That o'er bright words is pour'd; Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre A spirit in each chord.