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They that never had the use,

Thorough yon same bending plain,

Those lips, that Love's own hands did make,

Thou art to all lost love the best,

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
Three days ago, Lord Ronald's child,

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,

Thrice, oh, thrice happy shepherd's life and state,
Thus talking, hand in hand alone they passed,

Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die,

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!

'T is from high life, high characters are drawn,

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'T is long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my grief, 443

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,

To him who in the love of nature holds,

To whom belongs this valley fair,

'T was at the royal feast, for Persia won,

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Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green,

Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,

Underneath this marble hearse,
Under the greenwood tree,

Up from the shore of the placid lake,

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What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy,
What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod,
When I consider how my light is spent,

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When in disgrace, with fortune and men's eyes,
When I was a dweller in Cloudland,

When love with unconfined wings,
When maidens such as Hester die,

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When May is in his prime,

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,

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When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free,

When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
When we for age could neither read nor write,

Where the remote Bermudas ride,

Why came I so untimely forth,

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Will you hear a Spanish lady,

With blackest moss the flower-plots,

With fingers weary and worn,

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With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbst the skies,
With thee conversing I forget all time,

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 't is true,
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,

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