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"Oh, Coniston! thy lands are broad, thy stately towers are fair, Yet woe and desolation are for aye the tenants there; For Death shall be thy keeper, and two of the same race Shall ne'er succeed each other in thy fatal dwelling-place!"

The curse is on it to this day: now others hold the land; But be they childless, or begirt with a fair infant band, Some sudden death, some wasting ill, some sickness taints the air, And touches all,—no master yet has ever left an heir.