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And there he lingered, till the sky Lost somewhat of its brilliancy, And crimson shadows rolled on the west, And raised the moon her diamond crest, And came a freshness on the trees, Harbinger of the evening breeze, When a sweet far sound of song, Borne by the breath of flowers along, A mingling of the voice and lute, Such as the wind-harp, when it makes Its pleasant music to the gale Which kisses first the chords it breaks. He followed where the echo led, Till in a cypress grove he found A funeral train, that round a grave Poured forth their sorrows' wailing sound;