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And hast thou found where living waters burst? Thou, that didst pine amidst us, in the thirst Of fever-dreams! Are the true fountains thine for evermore ? Oh! lured so long by shining mists, that wore The light of streams!

Speak! is it well with thee?—We call, as thou, With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow, Wert wont to call On the departed! Art thou blest and free? —Alas! the lips earth covers, even to thee, Were silent all!

Yet shall our hope rise fann'd by quenchless faith, As a flame, foster'd by some warm wind's breath, In light upsprings: Freed soul of song! yes, thou hast found the sought; Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought, On morning's wings.