Lines.—When this heart is cold and still

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When this heart is cold and still,
  And can throb for thee no more;
When it wakes not to the thrill
 Of the harp's wild chord;
 Nor can e'en afford
  A sigh to the days of yore;

Then come to my silent tomb,
  Which the breeze will murmur over:
Where reigns the deepest gloom—
  Where the bat flits by
  And the ravens cry—
 Thou shalt the spot discover.

© Louisa Stuart Costello