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IT is not that my lot is low,
In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tir'd hedger hies him home; Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs,
The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
The woods and winds, with sullen wail,
Yet in my dreams a form I view,
IF far from me the Fates remove
fire-side is lone and still;
FANNY! upon thy breast I may not lie!
Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak! Where art thou, love?--Around I turn my eye,
And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. Was it a dream? or did
love behold Indeed my lonely couch!--Methought the breath Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold
And hollow, and the livery of death Invested her pale forehead.-Sainted maid,
My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave,
Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. Yet hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore
Of better promise; and I know at last,
When the long Sabbath of the tomb is past, We two shall meet in Christ to part no more.