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And the world of dreamy gloom that lies In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes? —Thou hast lov'd, fair girl! thou hast lov'd too well! Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell; Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth, And art unrepaid for their priceless worth! Mourn on!—yet come thou not here the while, It is but a pain to see thee smile! There is not a tone in our songs for thee— —Home with thy sorrows flee!

Ring, joyous chords!—ring out again! —But what dost thou with the Revel's train? A silvery voice through the soft air floats, But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes; There are bright young faces that pass thee by, But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye! Away! there 's a void in thy yearning breast, Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest? Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, And the love of thy spirit is with the dead! Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth— —Back to thy silent hearth!