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Therefore a current of sadness deep
Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep,
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky—
Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high!
Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troubled thought;—
Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regions more bright than earth!
