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The bard, the warrior, and the sage, What win they but one lying page, Where deeds and words, at hazard thrown, May be or may not be their own? And pleasure, lighted halls, red wine, Bright smiles, gay words, have all been mine: They only left what haunts me now,— A wasted heart, a weary brow. Ye distant stars, so calm, so bright, Would I had portion in your light, Could read the secrets of your birth,— Aught, any thing but this dull earth!" —It was not long, ere, still and deep, Those restless eyes were closed in sleep. There lay he like a statue pale, His canopy that silken sail.