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Wayworn and faint, a refuge is at hand. And there was one who listened to the tale, And treasur'd ev'ry word Orlando breathed. Young Adelaide, those accents are to thee As sounds of heav'nly music, which no time Or change can ever banish from the heart!

VI.

Oh, love! how exquisite thy visions are! Spring of the soul, what flowers can equal thine? When every other virtue fled from earth, Thou linger'dst still, last solace of our path. What were the world, bereft of thee?—a void, Without one sunny place on which the eye Might rest for sweet refreshment. Thou art not A summer blossom only; it is thine To bloom in beauty on the wint'ry hour: When storms and sorrows press the spirit down,