Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/154

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 Oh! memory there too much recalls Of saddest and of sweetest. I'll turn me to the gifted page Where the bard his soul is flinging; Too well it echoes mine own heart, Breaking e'en while singing. I must have rest; oh! heart of mine. When wilt thou lose thy sorrow? Never, till in the quiet grave; Would I slept there to-morrow!

  mouth, sunny brow, Wore she, who, fairy-like, sprung now Beside the harp. Careless she hung Over the chords; her bright hair flung 