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I little dream'd this dreary chapel held So fair a saint.

I pray thee do not speak to me; I feel As if the dead were conscious of our presence; And human tenderness, and human hope, Were impious before them. Nay, but hark! I hear a strange low sound, like grief suppress'd, Debarr'd from words, and breaking out in sighs.

I hear it too; the wild wind in the pines, The mournful music of an autumn eve. What brought thee here, to scare thyself with thoughts That make their own reality?