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270 CONNAL AND CRIMORA.
So falls a rock, torn from the shaggy hill ;
So falls an oak, the glory of the plain ;
What shall she do ? what griefs her bosom fill !
By me is Connal, hapless Connal, slain !
All day she wanders by some nameless stream, —
" Connal, my love ! Connal, my friend !" she cries ;
By night the vale, lit by the moon's pale beam ;
For grief the lovely musing mourner dies.
The loveliest pair cold earth doth here enclose,
That ever slept within her clay-cold womb ;
Alone they rest in undisturb'd repose,
The green grass rankling o'er their narrow tomb.

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