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119 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!

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