The dreariest spot in all the land to Death they set apart; with scanty grace from Nature's hand, and none from that of Art.
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, that all of thee we loved and cherished has with thy summer roses perished; and left, as its young beauty fled, an ashen memory in its stead.
Around the mighty master came The marvels which his pencil wrought, Those miracles of power whose fame Is wide as human thought.
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