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DANTE.

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of

gloom,
With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.
Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom;
Yet in thy heart what human sympathies,
What soft compassion glows, as in the skies
The tender stars their clouded lamps relume !

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Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks,
By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks,
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease;
And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks,
Thy voice along the cloister whispers, “ Peace!”

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THE HEMLOCK TREE.

FROM THE GERMAN.

O HEMLOCK tree! O hemlock tree ! how faith

ful are thy branches !
Green not alone in summer time,
But in the winter's frost and rime!

O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful

are thy branches !

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