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Life has dark secrets; and the hearts are few That treasure not some sorrow from the world— A sorrow silent, gloomy, and unknown, Yet colouring the future from the past. We see the eye subdued, the practised smile, The word well weighed before it pass the lip, And know not of the misery within: Yet there it works incessantly, and fears The time to come; for time is terrible, Avenging, and betraying.

paused, with an irresolution for which he himself could not account, as he approached the door of his mother's room. The future has a more subtle sympathy with the present than our imperfect nature can analyse. Who has not felt that nameless shadow upon the spirit, which indicates the coming trouble as surely as the over-hanging