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156

XIII. THE PAINS OF MEMORY.

I

When Joy its fairest flowers hath shed,
And even Hope's blossoms too are dead,
Though Memory through the cloud of woé
A momentary gleam may throw;

II

'Tis but an ignis fatuus light,—
A fleeting vision, frail as bright,—
That mocks awhile the mourner's sight,
To leave his soul in tenfold night!