The Nightingale.

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Two hills more huge than Hecla swell
To overhang the region pale
Where first my vast despair befell.

A solitude that dreams exhale!
Never the dawn shone out to quell
The endless darkness of that vale.

Night! Night! that nothing can dispel!
A single voice ascends in wail;
O shadows, hearken to its spell.

It is thy song borne on the gale,
Thy dirge that my cry suiteth well,
Hopeless eternally dost ail,

O Philomel! O Philomel!

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