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The moonshine of the midnight Is shining o'er the fane; Where the bard awoke the morning song He'll never wake again. Go thou to yon lone cavern, Where the lonely ocean sweeps, There, silent as its darkness, A maniac vigil keeps. 'T is the bard; his curse is on him, His fine mind is o'erthrown, Contempt hath jarr'd its tuneful chords, Neglect destroy'd its tone.

These are but few from many Of life's chequer'd scenes; yet these Are but as all,—pride, power, hope, Then weakness, grief, disease.