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 If possible upon thy heart to fling One gentle memory, one soft thought to cling To thy more mournful hours; to bid thee take A pledge too dearly treasured for thy sake, And one of mine. Ah! this may be forgiven; 'T is the last weakness of the bride of Heaven, Which I shall be or e'er this comes to tell How much thou hast been loved. Farewell, farewell!"

He took her gift: well known the pledges there, A wither'd rose, a tress of silken hair.

  and blue was the minstrel's eye, Like the lake when noontide is passing by; And his hair fell down in its golden rings, As bright and as soft as his own harp-strings, 