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The darksome waves of all thy fourscore years
Break on thy bosom's solitary shore,
Where mid the wreckage of memorial lore
Sorrow sheds fast her unavailing tears.
As through the long-drawn time thy vision peers,
What hopes pass by that mock thee as of yore,
What fragrant blossoms, gone forevermore,
Lie heaped upon thy heart's uncounted biers!
Oh, tell me gentle lady, from thy chair,
That holds thee now in Memory's thraldom chained,
Have nought but toils and pains been thy increase?--
Ah, friend, not so; some of my days were fair;
Much have I lost, yet much have also gained,
And even in Grief's own cup have tasted peace.