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232

RELIC OF SERVI.

When the mourner sits at the Feast of Woe,
The wine is gall and the lights burn low.
How bounded my heart in my younger years,
Ere Grief had unlocked the fount of my tears!
Now dead are the roses of Hope and their bloom,
And those that I loved are dust in the tomb;
And of all that gave Servi pleasure or pain,
His songs and his sorrows alone remain.