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Oh mine own song, did I not hold Such faith as held the bards of old,— That one eternal hope of fame Which sanctifies the poet's name,— I'd break my lyre in high disdain, And hold my gift of song as vain As those forced flowers which only bloom One hot night for a banquet room. —But I have wander'd from my tale,— The ivory bark, the purple sail, That bore Prince o'er the sea,— Content with that slow ebb to be Danced on the wave. By nightfall shaded, The red lights from the clouds are faded; Leaving one palest amber line To mark the last of day's decline;