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THE PHOENIX AND THE DOVE.
[The Hint taken from the French of Millevoix.]
My wings are bright with the rainbow's dyes,
My birth is amid perfume;
My death-song is music's sweetest sighs;
The sun himself lights my tomb.
My flight is traced in the clouds above;
The grave teems with life for me;
I stand alone—Alone! cried the dove—
Oh, I then can but pity thee!
