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And watched the laden branches bending, And heard the vintage songs ascending; 'Tis very long since I have seen The ivy's death-wreath, cold and green, Hung round the old and broken stone Raised by the hands now dead and gone! I do remember one lone spot, } By most unnoticed or forgot—} Would that I too recalled it not!} It was a little temple, gray, With half its pillars worn away, No roof left, but one cypress-tree Flinging its branches mournfully. In ancient days this was a shrine For goddess or for nymph divine;