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 from the world;

To turn my eye From vanity And point to scenes of bliss, that never, never die !

What is this passing scene ? A peevish April day ! A little sun—a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain And all things fade away. Man soon Yields up his trust And all his hopes lie with him in the dust!

Oh, what is beauty's power ?

It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek, Beneath its surface lies 1 Mute, mute is all O'er beauty's fall-; Her praise resounds no more, when mantled in her pall.

The most belov'd on earth,

Not long survive to day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, And now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade, In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb, the form belov'd is laid.