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There is a rock whose jutting
height
Stands frowning o'er that lake,
Where the faintest call of the bugle horn
The echo's voice will wake: -
And there the water lifts no wave
To the breeze, so fresh and cool,
But lies within the dark rock's curve,
Like a black and gloomy pool.
Its depth is great, - a stone thrown in
Hath a dull descending sound,
The plummet hath not there been cast
Which resting-place hath found.
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