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For the most lov'd are they, Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice In regal halls!—the shades o'erhang their way, The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps!—till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.

And the world knows not then, Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! Yet these are they, that on the souls of men Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, The long-remember'd dead! But not with thee might aught save Glory dwell— —Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel!