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Rh The voices and the tears of life expire.

Thither the prints go down, the hero's way

Trod large upon the sand, the trembling maid's:

Nimrod that wound his trumpet in the wood,

And the poor, dreaming child, hunter of flowers,

That here his hunting closes with the great:

So one and all go down, nor aught returns.

For thee, for us, the sacred river waits,

For me, the unworthy, thee, the perfect friend;

There Blame desists, there his unfaltering dogs

He from the chase recalls, and homeward rides;

Yet Praise and Love pass over and go in.

So when, beside that margin, I discard

My more than mortal weakness, and with thee

Through that still land unfearing I advance:

If then at all we keep the touch of joy

Thou shalt rejoice to find me altered—I,

O Felix, to behold thee still unchanged. 30