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But vainly the spring's gentle children were dying, And the tears of the morning amid the long grass, And vain, vainer still was the human heart's sighing, That one so beloved, and so lovely, should pass.

The grave is an altar, whereon the heart proffers Its feverish pleasures, its troubles, its woes; Stern, silent, and cold, the dark sanctuary proffers Its gloomy return of unbroken repose.

How much of the sorrow that life may inherit, That early departure to slumber will save; The hope that drags onward the world weary spirit, Rests but when its fever is quenched in the grave.

Weep not for the dead with a fruitless recalling, Their soul on the wings of the morning hath fled;