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CONRAD TO MEDORA.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


134

CONRAD TO MEDORA.

I

Beloved Medora! still to thee
Thy Conrad turns mid battle's strife;—
Dost thou, my Peri, think on me,
When Azreel's near and danger's rife?

II

Thou art to me the fairest flower,
That e'er in eastern climes may bloom;
Thy lute sounds sweetest in the bower,—
'Twill sound above thy Conrad's tomb.

III

Medora!—bird beloved—bright star!
Receive his soul when Conrad dies—
Ah! happier here to haunt thee far,
Than lonely dwell in yonder skies.