Chapter XV

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O! who can pierce the cloud that o'er him lowers?
It were as vain my wayward fate to scan;
Enough, 'twill come with th' onhurrying hours--
The futile purpose or the settled plan:
Or Death, perchance, e'en now each tie may sever!
There's many a grave in this bright rolling river,
That's bounding onward where the one I love,
To meet my coming, now, on its far banks may rove.