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Rh  There, where the birchen boughs of Gwyneth wave, Proud maid! to-morrow shall I find a grave! There, organ like, the nightingale shall roll His notes, in solemn masses for my soul; Orisons and “Pater Nosters” shall be said The summer through, in honour of the dead; Until the spirit of the bard shall rise, Freed from its sins, aloft to Paradise!

charmer of sweet Mona’s isle, With death attendant on her smile, Intent on pilgrimage divine, Speeds to St. David’s holy shrine; Too conscious of a sinful mind, Yet hopes she may forgiveness find!