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Updated: May 5, 2025
The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs: The clouds descend in rain; Mourning, the wan stars wane, Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres. The dull clods swell into the sullen mound; Earth, one look yet upon the prey we gave! The grave locks up the treasure it has found; Higher and higher swells the sullen mound Never gives back the grave!
He is gone and, ah! with bitter anguish Vainly now I breathe my mournful sighs; He is gone in hopeless grief I languish Earthly joys I ne'er again can prize! Pale, at its ghastly noon, Pauses above the death-still wood the moon; The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs; The clouds descend in rain; Mourning, the wan stars wane, Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres!
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