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But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,
The departed — the departed
Can never more return!
The good, the brave, the beautiful!
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep,--
Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale Winter's robes have spread
Above the narrow palaces,
In the cities of the dead!
I look around and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone,
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown.
I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees;
For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.
That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think Earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of Summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me,
As their remembered words.
I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall!
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.
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