Chapter XIII

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Sweet solace of the life-lorn! HOPE! to thee
How oft in loneliness the heart will turn,
To quell the pang of its keen misery;
While wailing sorrow weeps o'er memory's urn:
Rise from the ashes of my buried years!
The past comes up with overflowing tears,
To quench the promises that would arise:--
They're in the future far--where are they?--in the skies!