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LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FOURTH.
Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide
The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;
As if thy waves, since Time was born, Since first they rolled upon the Tweed; Had only heard the shepherd's reed,
Nor started at the bugle-horn.
Unlike the tide of human time,
Which, though it change in ceaseless flow,
Retains each grief, retains each crime,
Its earliest course was doomed to know,
Low as that tide has ebbed with me,
Fell by the side of great Dundee.
He paused:—the listening dames again