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"(...) There is a joy in grief when peace dwells in the breast of the sad.
But sorrow wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar! and their days are few!
They fall away, like the flower on which the sun hath looked in his strength, after the mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy with the drops of night.
Attend to the tales of Ossian, O maid!
He remembers the days of his youth! (...)"