Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/239

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A poet might have slept,—what! he   Whose restless heart first wakes Its life-pulse into melody, Then o'er it pines and breaks?—

He who hath sung of passionate love, His life a feverish tale:— Oh! not the nightingale, the dove Would suit this quiet vale.

See, I have named your favourite two,— Each had been glad to crave Rest 'neath this turf's unbroken dew, And such a nameless grave!