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O'er live dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again,
Ana' hastening to each flowery nook,
ts distans voice is heard far down the glen,
Fair child of art! thy charms decay,

Touched by the wither'd hand of Time:
And hushed the music of that day,
Vhen my voice mingled with the streamlet's

chime;

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But on my heart thy cheek of bloom

Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; And rich with memory's sweet perfume, all o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. There shalt thou live and wake the glee

That echoed on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee, infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

BY SIR W. SCOTT.

OLADY, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree !
l'oo lively glow the lilies light,
Che varnish'd holly's all too bright,

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The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress-tree.
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due ;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give;
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear,
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green-
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair ;
And while his crown of laurel leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress-tree.

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