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 He fondly press'd her—I address'd her—'Wretched, wretched be;'

Sown not gather'd—lov'd not wedded—luckless doom for me.

! let me wonder by that flower-bank'd stream

Which pours its fountains out by Praga's wall;

Go! toil for honor in the fields of fame:

Fame—all Bohemia wakens at its call.

Where my young days pass'd by in blissful thought

Is now a dreary solitude to me;

The scenes which peace and love and beauty brought

Are darkness all—because estrang'd from thee.

wert an ever-sparkling light—but now

Art a pale meteor-trembling in the sky:

I see thy name carv'd on the maple's bough,

Or by the moon's gold sickle writ on high;