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The mind back glancing through long ages past, 

 E'en to the changes in that fitful scene, 



Calls forth from out the dim, the lone, the vast, 

 One act to gaze on, noting what hath been 



In dreamy life ; though all we now descry 



Seems as a mournful vision sweeping by. 



Look then on her, for whom no evening gleam, 

 Nor soft wind rustling in the young green trees, 



Can soothe the wasting grief the fever'd dream 

 The wandering thought, finding but little ease ; 



For each fond hope from the sad heart is flown, 



Like leaves by autumn winds, all sear'd and gone. 



Her hall is lonely now, her throne of state 



Strangers may gaze at ; one lone couch of pain 



Holdeth her now, and pale care seems to wait 

 Beside that couch, despite the weeping train 



Who vainly seek, with fond officious zeal, 



To soothe the rankling grief they may not heal. 



Through the dim oriel streams that sunny glow 

 Which tints the old oak with its parting beam 



And one last flush gleams on the cold, damp 



brow 

 Whence life is ebbing, like a fitful dream, 



Too soon for those whom anxious boding fill, 



Her weeping train of ladies, watching still. 



