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Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not To dally with the flowers. Hark! What quick step Comes hurrying through the gloom at this dead hour?

Are not all hours as one to misery?—Why Should she take note of time, for whom the day And night have lost their blessed attributes Of sunshine and repose?

I know thy griefs; But there are trials for the noble heart Wherein its own deep fountains must supply All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice Comes with vain sweetness to th' unheeding ear Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar On the green shore, by him who perishes Midst rocks and eddying waters.

Think thou not I sought thee but for pity. I am come For that which grief is privileged to demand With an imperious claim, from all whose form,