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And would ye fain question where now is the dwelling
Of those of whose deeds my wild lay hath been telling?
Of the dead Maid that reign'd in the palace of Ocean?
Of the Spirit that lov'd—the proud Lord of the Deep?
Of the beautiful Sprites that have paid her devotion,
And oft have been seen in my strange song to weep?
If Reumon yet live—if his Laura yet smile,
All loveliness still, in their favorite Isle?
And where on the breast of the limitless Sea
That Island of beauty and verdure may be?—
—Oh! seek not wild Fancy's sweet dreams to dispel,
Nor strive the gay thoughts of the Poet to quell:—
From fable to truth, oh! how dull the transition—
—'Tis foolish to search for the things of a vision!