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IV.
They tell me (while they speak
Of her "costly broider'd pall")
That my voice is growing weak--
That I should not sing at all--
V.
Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully--so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.
VI.
But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride.--
VII.
Of the dead--dead who lies
All perfum'd there,
With the death upon her eyes,
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