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Он how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind;
And sing Woe's me-Woe 's me!
Love's a boundless burning waste,
And still more seldom flee
Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings
That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh Woe's me!
EARL MARCH look'd on his dying child, And smit with grief to view her— The youth, he cried, whom I exiled, Shall be restored to woo her.
She's at the window many an hour
His coming to discover ;
And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower, And she look'd on her lover-
But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling.
And am I then forgot-forgot?
It broke the heart of Ellen.
In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes;
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.
"Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art, But 'tis the too, too long endurance Of absence, that afflicts my heart.
The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,