A fantasy novel by George MacDonald

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couch beside the ancient dame. She sang once more:—
Thou dreamest: on a rock thou art,
High o'er the broken wave ; Thou fallest with a fearful start,
But not into thy grave ; For, waking in the morning's light, Thou smilest at the vanished night.
So wilt thou sink, all pale and dumb,
Into the fainting gloom ; But ere the coming terrors come,
Thou wak'st—where is the tomb ? Thou wak'st—the dead ones smile above, With hovering arms of sleepless love.
She paused; then sang again :
We weep for gladness, weep for grief;
The tears they are the same ; We sigh for longing, and relief;
The sighs have but one name.
And mingled in the dying strife,
Are moans that are not sad ; The pangs of death are throbs of life,
Its sighs are sometimes glad.
The face is very strange and white:
It is Earth's only spot That feebly flickers back the light
The living seeth not.
I fell asleep, and slept a dreamless sleep, for I know not how long. When I awoke, I found that my hostess had moved from where she had been sitting,
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