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And, said I, joy’s bright sun had set, 
No more to gild my path of shade ! 
Well, on eve’s dewy coronet 
Shine moon and star when sunbeams fade. 
Then will I not desponding grieve, 
Though dim my future path may be, 
For such as are those lights to eve 
Shall be thy smile of love to me. 
And, said I, joy’s gay flow’rs no more 
Will grace such sunless heart as mine! 
Well be it so — the sweetest flower 
Not oft in gaudy tints doth shine. 
The wild rose on the storm-beat rock 
Than garden queen I’d rather see, 
And such, mid sorrow’s tempest-shock, 
Yea, such is now thy love to me. 
When musing on the dead, my eye 
Half wistful turns to holier sphere; 
I think of thee, and feel a tie 
Still sweetly hold me captive here. 
Should that too break—oh ! then most lone, 
Most desolate my heart would be; 
