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And the fresh and flowery plains,

And the gentle rippling spring,

And the dear though wild domains,
Where first thou tried'st thy wing.

Yet on, proud bird, sail on!

Unheeding rock or nest;

Though thou from them all hast gone,
Mourn not, thy place is best!

By the stream where thou hast quaffed,

In the plains where thou lovedst to be,

The hunter's deadly shaft

Might have found its way to thee;

But now thou art rising high,

Thou hast left, thou hast left them all;

And thou fearest not, in the sky,

An earthly shaft or thrall.

Yet, wherefore dost thou turn
Again, and gaze thus back?

On, where the sunbeams burn!
On, in their glorious track!

And wherefore dost thou rest
Thus on thy mighty wing?

Why look back to thy nest

With such fond lingering?

It hath precious ties for thee,

That can tempt thee back again;

Though thou know'st the earth must be But a scene of fear and pain.

Sail on, proud bird, from earth,

Wilt thou not 'scape the snare ?

Ah! freedom were little worth,

That thy loved ones could not share!

'Tis thus with the parting soul,

When it looks with hope above;

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THE DEAD.

66

'Oh, such a death is beautiful as life!"

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And she does not hear the sound

Of the mournful sighs and heavy sobs
Of her weeping friends around.

The gentle smile is resting still

Upon her features pale;

The dark curls on her forehead chill,

Part like a sable yeil;

Her

eyes are closed; and her cheek's the same,

Save that it hath no tear;

Yet this is Death!-the thing we name

With shuddering and with fear.

True, there are some who view the grave
As a resting-place from pain;

A spot where wearied hearts shall have

No cold and earthly chain.

And there are some who, dying, trust
That many an eye shall gaze

Upon the tomb, that o'er their dust

The living fondly raise.

But she, who never struck the lyre,

Or won a hero's name,

Who knew her memory would expire,

Nor leave one wreck to fame,

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