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Slow moves the plumed hearse, the mourning train, I mark the sad procession with a sigh, Silently passing to that village fane, Where, HAROLD, thy forefathers mouldering lie; There sleeps THAT MOTHER, who, with tearful eye Pondering the fortunes of thy early road, Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy; Her Son, released from mortal labour's load, Now comes to rest, with her, in the same still abode.
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