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The Tear.
By Thomas Moore
On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,
And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept--
Fond maid! it was her Lindor's tomb!
A warm tear gushed, the wintry air,
Congealed it as it flowed away:
All night it lay an ice-drop there,
At morn it glittered in the ray.
An angel, wandering from her sphere,
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear
And hung it on her diadem!
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