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sad and simple bard of ours, In song—a thousand sorrows kill him, Despair o’er all his visions lowers, And yet—he lives—the sweet ap Gwilym! Still lives, and woos, and loves, and sings: And though he suffers ten times more Than Cambrian e’er endured before— No sickness stops his carollings! Pangs, numerous as the stars of night, Consume the body of the wight! And yet this tuneful man of sorrow, From love—draws every pang and pain, And thus, though slain to-day—to-morrow He lives to groan and grieve again!