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And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst From the Fountain of Youth ere now* , For there must the stream in its freshness burst, Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lur'd to earth From the land of deathless flowers, By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, Though their hearts were once with ours;

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze, And bent with us the bow, And heard the tales of our fathers' days, Which are told to others now!

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain! Can those who have lov'd forget? We call—and they answer not again— —Do they love—do they love us yet?