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"Byron.
"Thy lute upon the Grecian ground
Lies broken: let it lie;
'Twas worthy such funeral mound,
'Twas worthy of such sky.
Beside thy old Castilian groves
It breathed its noblest words:
The pine-woods and the ancient hills
Attend its dying chords.
All nature owned its bitter spell,
And answered to the tone;
For in the sorrow of the strain
Each heart recalled its own.
