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117 Went down, where high and strong The billows beat o’er the sea-crag’s height- And their foam-crests bore along One burden of their buried store To that maiden’s feet on the wreck-strewn shore! Oh! fair was that form in death, Though born in a land that loved not ours- But the tale of her haunting dream was told, For well she knew its matchless mould. Though the wave o’er her memory’s depth that roll’d Was voiceless, as the towers Of silence raised in the Eastern wold, Where fall the sweet spring showers In vain, and orient sunsets shed Their splendours on the Persian’s dead. We know not how that dark wave wore Its channel to the young heart’s core; But the maid grew sad by her native streams, And she never smiled except in dreams! OH! the moonlit Eve of the lovely May That comes with song and flowers, We have marke’d, as year by year it lay On the valleys green and the mountains gray, And the bright streams winding far away Through wild and woodland bowers- How died the faith of Earth’s elder day, That fill’d its silent hours With prophet-dreams, and spells that clung To the bright May Eves when we were young! But the young of our hills go forth no more

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