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On long-remembered things, which soon Must take our first and last farewell! Day fades apace; another day, That maiden will be far away, A wanderer o’er the dark-blue sea, And bound for lovely Italy, Her mother’s land! Hence, on her breast The cross beneath a Moorish vest; And hence those sweetest sounds, that seem Like music murmuring in a dream, When in our sleeping ear is ringing The song the nightingale is singing; When by that white and funeral stone, Half-hidden by the cypress gloom,