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All silently, yet driven as if by the furies they sweep along, sometimes quite thin, sometimes thicker a real Ossianic night amid the whirl, absent or dead friends, the old, the past, somehow tenderly suggested while the Gael-strains chant themselves from the mists "Be thy soul blest, O Carril! in the midst of thy eddying winds. O that thou wouldst come to my hall when I am alone by night!
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