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Rh Then in our sweet birchen tree Sang the ouzel tenderly, And I need not tell to thee How he spoke most brilliantly! And the nightingale at night Sang smooth music in delight, While, with love’s united strain, We returned his ‘psalm’ again!
 * Time now poignantly bereaves

Of their life the slender leaves, Stems and boughs alone remain In sad winter’s sullen rain; Age holds there tyrannic sway, Whirlwinds toss its roof away, And the ouzel’s pride is o’er, With his head befleck’d with gold, And the nightingale no more Rhymes indites—it is too cold! Still within my memory dwell Days of youth, and love to thee— Charms that all on earth excel— Source of all my misery! Of that long and luckless suit, Care and anguish are the fruit— Slumber from my eyelids scared, And the grave—it is prepared!