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Just two or three sweet chords, that seemed An echo of thy tone,— The cushat's song was on the wind And mingled with thine own.

I looked upon the vale beneath, I looked on thy sweet face; I thought how dear, this voyage o'er, Would be my resting place.

We parted; but I kept thy kiss,— Thy last one,—and its sigh— As safely as the stars are kept In yonder azure sky.

Again I stood by that hill side, And scarce I knew the place,