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 Silence, forgetfulness, and rust, Lute, are for thee: And such my lot; neglect, the grave, These are for me.

  "Now take the harp, mine, For thy sad song;" and at the sign Came forth a maiden. She was fair And young; yet thus can spring-time wear The traces of far other hour Than should be on such gentle flower. Her eyes were downcast, as to keep Their secret, for they shamed to weep; Her cheek was pale, but that was lost, So often the bright blushes cross'd; 