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H! place me where the burning moon Forbids the wither'd flower to blow; Or place me in the frigid zone, On mountains of eternal snow: Let me pursue the steps of Fame, Or Poverty's more tranquil road; Let youth's warm tide my veins inflame, Or sixty winters chill my blood: Tho' my fond soul to heaven were flown, Or tho' on earth 'tis doom'd to pine, Prisoner or free—obscure or known, My heart, O Laura! still is thine. Whate'er my destiny may be, That faithful heart still burns for thee!