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One star alone shot forth a spark

To prove thee--not Eternity.

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art
A blank; a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform;
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed:
And I can smile to think how weak

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,

When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon a nameless stone.



AH! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,

Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by,


Without one friend to hear my woe,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows, well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison'd too.


Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net,
Which Love around your haunts hath set;

Or circled by his fatal fire,

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.


A bird of free and careless wing

Was I, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,
I burn, and feebly flutter there.


Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,

The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.


In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.


My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate!

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?


Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:

What wretch with me would barter woe?'

My bird! relent: one note could give

A charm, to bid thy lover live.


My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain,
In silent anguish I sustain ;


And still thy heart, without partaking

One pang, exults-while mine is breaking.


Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,'

And Love, that thus can lingering slay.


My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know,
That joy is harbinger of woe

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THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought:

'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st too soon thou leavest.


The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,-
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.


To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,

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