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How many memories of what radiant hours

At sight of thee and thine at once awake! How many scenes of what departed bliss!

How many thoughts of what entombed hopes! How many visions of a maiden that is

No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes !

No more! alas, that magical sad sound

Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more—

Thy memory no more! Accursed ground

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,

O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!

"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"

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HOU wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart

From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,

And love-a simple duty.

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THE HAUNTED PALACE.

Ix the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace-

Radiant palace--reared its head.

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