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I watch'd the rose-clouds rise around the scene

Wherein thy life's fair pageant on did glide,

And every hour, with iris-colored sheen,

Tinging thy loveliness and girlish pride.

Fond lingering on childhood's fairy isle,

Thy innocent feet yet press'd its dewy flowers;

But joys of youth impatient strove to wile

Thy half-waked soul to more entrancing bowers.

The sternest eyes dropp'd gentlest looks of love,

The coldest hands strewed incense at thy feet;

And, in the cloudless zenith arch'd above,

Not one dark shade thy fearless gaze could meet.

Yet still thine unsuspicious, placid glance

Found nothing strange in such a beauteous lot,

But saw the coming years, like dreams, advance,

And of their solemn meaning question'd not.

Nor fear'd I for thee,—but bewilder'd, charm'd,

Lured by a magic never felt before,

I never dream'd mine idol could be harm'd,

And careless flung for thee one perfume more.

I saw thy head grow giddy in the breath

Of adulation, fanning out the air

Common and pure, and with a subtle death

Poisoning and making false thine atmosphere.

Oh! perishing of too much love and praise!

Oh! foolish mortals, spoiling all their best!

Who now our floweret—too much forced—can raise,

Or from its bloom exotic bravely wrest?