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Fame was thy gift from others—but for her To whom the wide earth held that only spot— —She loved thee!—lovely in your lives ye were, And in your early deaths divided not! Thou hast thine Oak—thy trophy—what hath she?
 * Her own blest place by thee.

It was thy spirit, Brother! which had made The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye played, And sent glad singing through the free blue sky! Ye were but two!—and when that spirit passed,
 * Woe for the one, the last!

Woe, yet not long!—She lingered but to trace Thine image from the image in her breast; Once, once again to see that buried face But smile upon her ere she went to rest! Too sad a smile!—its living light was o'er,
 * It answered hers no more!

The Earth grew silent when thy voice departed, The Home too lonely whence thy step had fled; What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted? Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead! Softly she perished—be the Flower deplored
 * Here, with the Lyre and Sword!