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And feelings which, like waters unconfined, Had carried with them freshness and green beauty, Thrown back upon themselves, spread desolation On their own banks. He was a sacrifice, And sank beneath neglect; his glowing thoughts Were fires that preyed upon himself. Perhaps, For he has left some high memorials, Fame Will pour its sunlight o'er the picture, when The artist's hand is mouldering in the dust, And fling the laurel o'er a harp, whose chords Are dumb for ever. But his eyes he raised Mutely to mine—he knew my voice again, And every vision of his boyhood rushed Over his soul; his lip was deadly pale, But pride was yet upon its haughty curve;.. He raised one hand contemptuously, and seemed