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The mountain-oak oft seems most sound,

When yielding to decay

The breast may hide a deadly wound,
While lip and cheek are gay.

Along the crushed and crumbling tower
The ivy-leaf may steal-

So laugh and jest in pleasure's bower
The wasting heart conceal.

Soft summer's leaves are fresh and fair,
But not so bright are they,
As when on Autumn's misty air

The forest-rainbows play.

Fair on the cheek is beauty's blush,
Where rose and lily meet,

And yet consumption's hectic flush,
Though sad, is far more sweet.

"Tis not-'tis not the clam'rous groan

The querulous complaint

The gushing tear

the frequent moan

That speaks the soul's lament.

Sorrow's a proud a lonely thing,

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The Spartan's mantle o'er the fang
It clasps, and bleeds alone.

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Tears which are never shed Deep in the soul their fountain sleeps, When hope and joy are fled.

Yet, who would ask the stagnant breast,

Which chills not

never glows?

Who would not spurn that waveless rest
Which neither ebbs nor flows?

Then, think not, though the brow is free
From shade of gloom or care,

The breast is as a summer sea,

And happiness dwells there.

Ah, think not, though the sunny glance
Upon the cheek may play,'

And on the lip the jest may dance,

That grief is far away.

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