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She lives – but she lives in the arms of despair,
For the friend whom she loved, and who promised so fair,
	In the garb of a drunkard appears.

And now, all alone, o’er the wide world she stray’s.
	And often reclines in a manger;
She asks for no pity – but kindness repays
With the thanks of a heart, that in far better days,
	Has felt for the destitute stranger.



Farewell – whatever be my lot,
	While feeling burns within my breast,
Although by thee, perhaps, forgot
	On thee remembrance oft will rest,

In pleasure’s time my heart will say
	Tho' brightly move these mountains by,
Yet few less blest and bright are they,
	Than those I knew when thou wer’t nigh.

And oft in sorrows lonely hour,
	Thy memory on my soul will steal.
Like music’s strain, with magic power,
	To chase away each thought of ill.

Farewell – may sorrow never thrill
	That breast where truth and peace reside
But unprofan’d by anguish still
	May all thy hours in sweetness glide