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But e'en amid its darkness and its crime, Touch'd with the native beauty of such clime, Till wonder rises with each gushing tear:— And hath the serpent brought its curse even here? Such is the tale that haunts me: I would fain Wake into pictured life the heart's worst pain; And seek I if pale cheek and tearful eye Answer the notes that wander sadly by. And say not this is vain, in our cold world, Where feelings sleep like wither'd leaves upfurl'd: 'Tis much to wash them with such gentle rain, Calling their earlier freshness back again. The heart of vanity, the head of pride, Touch'd by such sorrow, are half purified; And we rise up less selfish, having known Part in deep grief, yet that grief not our own.