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Choose ye the mildly breathing flute,
Are ye prepared ? now lightly tread,
The viol swells now low, now loud, 'Tis spirits chanting on a cloud That passes by. It dies away; So gently dies, she scarce can say 'Tis gone; listens; 'tis lost, she fears; Listens; and thinks again she hears. As dew-drops' ming’ling in a stream To her 'tis all one blissful dreamA song of angels, thron'd in light. Softly! away! fair one, good night.
[From the French.)
To be born with the spring, and to die with the rose,
It resembles Desire, which in search of new sweets,