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[107]
     Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er:
Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

So sang the Children of the Leaves beside
     The broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide;
Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell,
     On the high wind their voices rose and fell.
Nature's wild music,—sounds of wind-swept trees,
     The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze,
The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong,—
     Mingled and murmured in that farewell song.

1844.

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1844 AD (1)
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