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66 Night of the Grave

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; 
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you, 
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, 
Perfum'd with fresh fragrance and glitt'ring with dew. 

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, 
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save,
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! 
Oh! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave!

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