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Some close behind, some side by side,
The Stream that flows out of the Lake, As through the glen it ranıbles, Repeats a moan o'er' moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little Islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep:
The Fishers say, those Sisters fair
SIX YEARS OLD.
0 Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
fears For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
What hast Thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of tomorrow?