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The clouds, like Hope, which died with them, and night Came all too soon and shadowy. He rose, And wander'd through the city, o'er which hung The darkness of his thoughts. At length a strain Of ominous music wail'd along the streets: It was the mournful chanting for the dead, And the long tapers flung upon the air A wild red light, and show'd the funeral train: Wreaths—O what mockeries!—hung from the bier; And there, pale, beautiful, as if in sleep, Her dark hair braided graceful with white flowers, She lay,—his own beloved one! No more, no more!—love, turn thy boat to land,— I am so sorrowful at my own words.