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The lonely and neglected child became One whom all Rome was proud of, and he dwelt There in the sunshine of his spreading fame. There was a melancholy beauty shed Over his pictures, as the element In which his genius lived was sorrow. Love He made most lovely, but yet ever sad; Passionate partings, such as wring the heart Till tears are life-blood; meetings, when the cheek Has lost all hope of health in the long parting; The grave, with one mourning in solitude: These made his fame, and were his excellence,— The painter of deep tears. He had just gained The summer of his glory and of his days, When his remembering art was called to give A longer memory to one whose life