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THE LONELY BIRD.
From a ruin thou art singing,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
The soft blue air is ringing,
By thy summer music stirr'd;
But all is dark and cold beneath,
Where harps no more are heard:
Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird?
Thy song flows richly swelling,
To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern dwelling
A stream in glory bounds!
