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Guarding a sudden growth of flowers, Not like those sprung in summer hours, But pale and drooping; each appears As if their only dew were tears. On that sky lyre a chord is mute: Haply one echo yet remains, To linger on the poet's lute, And tell in his most mournful strains, —A star hath left its native sky, To touch our cold earth, and to die; To warn the young heart how it trust To mortal vows, whose faith is dust; To bid the young cheek guard its bloom From wasting by such early doom; Warn by the histories link'd with all That ever bow'd to passion's thrall;