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So long had slept, that fickle Fame
The Harper smiled, well-pleased; for ne'er
Smiled then, well-pleased, the Aged Man, And thus his tale continued ran.
LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.
Call it not vain :—they do not err.
Who say, that, when the Poet dies,
Through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn