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That mar her nature's beauty; like the dew, Shedding its sweetness o'er the sleeping flowers Till all their morning freshness is revived, Kindly affections, sad, but yet sweet thoughts Melt the cold eyes, long, long unused to weep. O lute of mine, that I shall wake no more! Such tearful music linger on thy strings, Consecrate unto sorrow and to love; Thy truth, thy tenderness, be all thy fame!