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181 O cruel waves ! to bear away my gladness ; O stedfast rock ! to rest my hand upon ; O traitress heart ! to melt away in sadness ; O dazzling sunbeams ! would ye never shone ! O little bloom of fragile faithful heather ! Come, let me press my burning lips on you ; Come, teach me how to bear this stress of weather, And give my parched tongue a sense of dew. Mine eyes, my poor wet eyes, are aching, aching ; The heavy tears lie scorching on my cheek ; My heart is hungry, weary, — is it breaking ? Good-bye, good-bye, I cannot, cannot speak.