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To pour its thoughts in melancholy words; And if aught can charm sorrow, music can. The song she chose was one her youth had loved, Ere yet she knew the bitterness of grief, But thought tears luxury:—

Oh take that starry wreath away, Fling not those roses o'er my lute! The brow that thou wouldst crown is pale, The chords thou wouldst awaken mute.

Look on those broken gems that lie Beside those flowers, withering there; Those leaves were blooming round my lute, Those gems were bright amid my hair.