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Rh

Of wither'd hope, and wasted bloom, Of the young warrior's early tomb; And the while her dark mournful eye Held with her words deep sympathy.

And listen'd;—music's power Is little felt in sunlit hour; But hear its voice when hopes depart, Like swallows, flying from the heart On which the summer's late decline Has set a sadness and a sign; When friends whose commune once we sought For every bosom wish and thought, Have given in our hour of need Such a support as gives the reed,— When we have seen the green grass grow Over what once was life below;