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Book, page 3 / 145 With a cheek white, wet, and chill; Under the limes we sat murmuring, And holding each other so still! "Oh! not thy father's sceptre of gold, Nor yet his shining throne, Nor his diamond crown that glitters cold-- 'Tis thyself I want, my own!" "Oh! that is too good," she answered me; "I lie in the grave all day; And only at night I come to thee, For I cannot keep away." It was something that she had volunteered a song, whatever it was. But it is a misfortune that, in writing a book, one cannot give the music of a song. Perhaps, by the time that music has its fair part in education, this may be done. But, meantime, we mention the fact of a song, and then give the words, as if that were the song. The music is the song, and the words are no more than the saddle on which the music sits, the singer being the horse, who could do without a saddle well enough.--May Adela forgive the comparison!--At the same time, a true-word song has music of its own, and is quite independent, for its music, both of that which it may beget, and of that with which it may be associated. As she rose, she glanced towards the doctor, and said: "Now it is your turn, Mr. Armstrong." Harry did not wait for a second invitation; for to sing was to him evidently a pleasure too great to be put in jeopardy. He rose at once, and sitting down at the instrument, sang--I cannot say _as follows_, you see; I can only say _the following words_: Autumn clouds are flying, flying, O'er the waste of blue; Summer flowers are dying, dying, Late so lovely new. Labouring wains are slowly rolling
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