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Upon that ending page should be Which will never, never see. Yet who will love it like that one, Who cherish as he would have done, My father! albeit but in vain This clasping of a broken chain, And albeit of all vainest things That haunt with sad imaginings, None has the sting of memory; Yet still my spirit turns to thee, Despite of long and lone regret, Rejoicing it cannot forget. I would not lose the lightest thought With one remembrance of thine fraught,— And my heart said no name, but thine Should be on this last page of mine.